


Among Those Killed

by motleygrrrl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Aurors, Complicated Relationships, Confusion, Death, Drama, Grief/Mourning, HP: EWE, Hate Crimes, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Misunderstandings, Murder, Mystery, Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Past Infidelity, Past Relationship(s), Poetry, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 123,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7739824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motleygrrrl/pseuds/motleygrrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the war, Auror Harry Potter arrives on Draco Malfoy's doorstep with terrible news. It seems that somebody is hunting down all of the Slytherins in their year one-by-one to exact violent revenge—will Draco be next? Or will Harry be able to stop whoever is behind the attacks?   </p><p>All of the warnings are listed inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Measure Every Grief

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few quick heads-up before we get into the excitement, friends...
> 
> WARNING: This story, as I'm sure anyone familiar with my writing would guess, is rated M, for mature content of the adult kind, violence, and bad bad language. There will be EXTREME PROFANITY and EXTREME HOMOSEXUALITY in it. And no, I shall never apologize for either.
> 
> This particular story will be a mystery of the most bloody kind and WILL have graphic violence and feature character death (although I promise that nothing fatal shall befall either Harry or Draco on my watch, you have my word). There will also be a somewhat unnecessary amount of angst. (Still no apologies)
> 
> To help further the angsty drama along, there is also—don't kill me!—an Original Male Character. I got rather tired of attempting to recycle the same tertiary character names and decided to just create my own! I do hope you like him, I had a lovely time creating him. I did also have a bit of fun with coming up with names for random side characters, as well. Sue me. (Please don't)
> 
> And lastly, there is a final heartfelt warning of EXTREME USE OF POETRY contained in this story. I'm serious. I tried my hardest, but I was unable to reign in my obsessive passion for all things poetry and Emily Dickinson, which I shall now be unselfishly sharing with you all :) It's all out of love, I assure you.
> 
> (I would like to take this time to apologize profusely for my sincere inability to apologize in a genuine manner)
> 
> And with that last final anti-apology, I do believe those are all the warnings I have at this time, so with no further ado, let us begin...

_I measure every Grief I meet_   
_With narrow, probing, Eyes-_   
_I wonder if It weighs like Mine-_   
_Or has an Easier size._

_I wonder if They bore it long-_   
_Or did it just begin-_   
_I could not tell the Date of Mine-_   
_It feels so old a pain-_

_I wonder if it hurts to live-_   
_And if They have to try-_   
_And whether-could They choose between-_   
_It would not be-to die-_

_I note that Some-gone patient long-_   
_At length, renew their smile-_   
_An imitation of a Light_   
_That has so little Oil-_

_I wonder if when Years have piled-_   
_Some Thousands-on the Harm-_   
_That hurt them early-such a lapse_   
_Could give them any Balm-_

_Or would they go on aching still_   
_Through Centuries of Nerve-_   
_Enlightened to a larger Pain-_   
_In Contrast with the Love-_

_The Grieved-are many-I am told-_   
_There is the various Cause-_   
_Death-is but one-and comes but once-_   
_And only nails the eyes-_

_There's Grief of Want-and grief of Cold-_   
_A sort they call "Despair"-_   
_There's Banishment from native Eyes-_   
_In Sight of Native Air-_

_And though I may not guess the kind-_   
_Correctly-yet to me_   
_A piercing Comfort it affords_   
_In passing Calvary-_

_To note the fashions-of the Cross-_   
_And how they're mostly worn-_   
_Still fascinated to presume_   
_That Some-are like My Own—_

"I Measure Every Grief I Meet"—Emily Dickinson

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry Potter looked different.

That was the first thought that floated through Draco's dazed—well hardly dazed, more like  _surprised—_ mind, startling him into freezing. He hadn't seen Potter in over three years. Not since the trials, the ones that had decided Draco's fate, the ones that had left him a nervous wreck, the ones Draco tried to forget he was indebted to Potter for speaking at. But that had been a different Potter than the one that stood before him now. That Potter had been thin and wiry, with a certain presence, sure, but nothing  _overwhelming_. That Potter had still had ridiculous hair and awkward glasses, as well as a swift temper, angering quickly and prone to giving furious speeches.

 _This_  Potter, however, stood tall, with a quiet confidence and a hushed aura of power that instantly drew Draco's attention. The ugly glasses from his youth were gone, replaced by thin black frames that seemed to cast a certain dangerous glint to his eyes—eyes Draco was certain had never been  _that_  green. The bony prat from his childhood had disappeared, replaced by this new attractive version, iron muscles that Draco was convinced had never wrapped Potter's skinny frame before were straining beneath tight crimson robes—Auror robes. Draco had a history of dealing with Aurors, even three years after being acquitted. But at the sight of the robes stretched tight around Potter's upper body, his mouth went dry and he was quite sure he had never had a reaction like that to the uniform before.

The only thing that remained somewhat the same about the man was his hair, sticking everywhere in unruly tufts and hanging low over his forehead, covering his famous scar, even longer than last Draco had seen it, but unlike in his younger days, it now only served to make him look dark, dangerous, arousing.  _Beautiful._

At the sound of a quiet cough from the dark-haired Auror, Draco realized he had been staring for too long, in wide-eyed surprise at the changes in the man standing before him. Quickly schooling his features into a neutral expression _—_ thank Merlin for all the childhood practice—he raised his gaze from Potter's firm chest to look him in the eye, heart hammering and throat feeling parched.

"Potter?" he asked, tone sounding nearly bored, belying the frantic pounding of his heart. What was this? How was he affecting Draco like this? Was he casting some sort of spell, exuding some of the power that Draco could practically feel rolling off of him in delicious waves? At the thought, he gritted his teeth. How dare Potter use magic against him like that? Turning his own body's reactions against him? How dare he show up on Draco's doorstep, looking so powerful and self-assured?

Well, Draco simply wouldn't fall for it, no matter how much he longed to reach out a finger, just one finger, and stroke the bundle of pectoral muscle that he could see bunching and flexing beneath those lovely robes as the man shifted his weight and crossed his arms, frowning at Draco as if expecting a warmer welcome than the one offered.

"Mind if I come in, Malfoy?" He gazed around the large doorframe pointedly and Draco stepped aside silently to allow him entrance.

As Potter crossed the threshold and shut the door softly behind him, Draco had the sudden urge to hex something. Hadn't he just promised himself not even two minutes ago that he would not allow himself to be swept up in any sort of spell of Potter's, and he had let the man into his home without so much as a single protest? Was Draco well? Should he seek out a Healer, perhaps? But Potter started speaking and the low timbre of his voice pulled Draco's attention away from his thoughts.

"Look, Malfoy, this—" Whatever else he had been about to say was cut off by a raised palm from the blond.

"Surely you don't expect me to receive company in the  _foyer_ , do you?" he drawled, shaking his head. It seemed that this newfound attractiveness Potter had somehow achieved had not managed to include any sort of social etiquette.  _He_ has _spent the last ten years in the company of uncouth Gryffindors_ , Draco reminded himself wryly. Well, at least for the time that Potter was here, Draco would attempt to impart correct behaviors and proper social niceties on the man. It was about time someone did so, considering the amount of time the other man spent in the spotlight.

At his question, Potter glanced around in confusion, as if trying to figure out why this location would not be an appropriate one to hold a conversation in. "Follow me to the parlour, Potter." Normally he would have led him to the drawing room, but he wasn't sure if Potter wanted the reminder of where his best friend had been tortured by Draco's mad aunt.

Beckoning, Draco turned and led the way, attempting a nonchalant sort of strut, but he was not sure if it was coming across as relaxed as he would like it to appear. The two men did not exchange another word until they were both seated in large plush armchairs in the next room, Draco sipping at a glass of amber liquid, ice clinking gently around the rim as he raised it to his lips. Potter had politely declined his offer of a beverage, staring at the fireplace impassively as Draco took his time preparing himself a drink. Leaning casually back in his chair, Draco sipped his brandy and raised one eyebrow, permitting the Auror to finally speak. His lips twitched into a small smirk at the sight of Potter obviously refraining from rolling his eyes.

"Right, well," he began, pushing his glasses higher up onto his nose and fidgeting with the hem of one sleeve. Was he  _nervous_? Despite the trepidation Draco still felt toward the spontaneous arrival of the Wizarding World's Saviour, he found himself intrigued. What had brought the All-Powerful Auror and Vanquisher of Evil knocking on Draco's door, looking so gorgeous and apprehensive?

"We've had a recent rash of crimes," he spoke quietly, inviting Draco to lean in toward him, resting one elbow on the armrest and raising an eyebrow in invitation to continue. What did Potter's work have to do with him? "Violent crimes," he continued, voice taking on a quiet anger as if speaking about the violence in plurals was difficult for him. His mouth opened to say more, but he closed it again and took a deep breath.

"How does any of this pertain to me?" Draco wondered aloud when Potter seemed to be struggling for words.

"The first victim was found nearly four months ago, but the length of time between attacks seems to be growing less and less each time." When Potter spoke, it was in a calm voice, as if reading his words from a file, startling Draco with how quickly he was able to reign in any emotion. The Potter he had known in school had never had any luck with controlling his anger. But this new Potter was apparently full of surprises. "They've grown increasingly brutal," he continued in the same calm manner. "And the attackers have become much bolder. The last crime was committed just outside of Diagon Alley."

"Who was it?" Draco felt curiously strange, numb almost. Potter didn't need to say it. He  _knew_. He knew without explanation exactly who the intended targets were.

"We've identified the pattern in the attacks," Potter continued quietly, ignoring Draco's question.

Suddenly, the blond was on his feet, with no memory of standing. He shook his head frantically, not wanting Potter to finish his sentence. It would be horrible, Draco just knew it. Whatever Potter had come to say, it was something Draco did not want to hear, and he regretted living anywhere that Potter could track him down so easily. Because whatever Potter was about to say was about to change his life forever, and Draco was certain that it was not in any way he would like.

"Malfoy…" Potter was on his feet before him, reaching out an arm to steady the other man. "Draco…" And it was his given name from those lips that made Draco freeze and force himself to calm, even though the sound of his name only added to the feeling of dread settling heavily in his chest.

"Who was it, Potter?" Draco's voice was the barest slither of a whisper. "Who died?"

Potter's eyes burned with regret as a single name fell from his lips: "Pansy Parkinson."

The air whooshed out of Draco's lungs in a painful rush. Pansy? No, Potter was clearly mistaken. He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Pansy was fine, Draco had spoken to her only two days ago. They had gone out, they had gotten drunk, he had dropped her off at her flat with a kiss to her forehead, promising to floo in the morning with hangover potion and breakfast. They had eaten breakfast and read the Daily Prophet together, fighting over the gossip section and being embarrassingly catty. She had tried to set him up on one of her million "brilliant"—and oftentimes disastrous—blind dates, he had refused, she had made a snarky remark about him being depressingly single, he had called her an interfering cow, kissed her on the cheek, and flooed away to the spinning sight of her familiar smirk.

His knees quivered and buckled; he could feel bile rising up in his throat. How could anything happen to Pansy? How could Draco have allowed anything to happen to Pansy? She had to be fine—she was always fine. Always  _there._ Always there for Draco, with a glass of brandy and a bitchy remark. Who would indulge in juvenile gossip with him now? Who would make snide remarks about passers-by with him? Who would stumble through his Floo, pissed off her bloody arse, at ungodly hours of the night? Who would talk about men with him and swap scandalous stories? Not that Draco had had a juicy scandal in a while, but next he did, who was he supposed to turn to? Who would brush his hair and tell him he looked lovely, then turn around and call him a slag? Who would drag him on all-day shopping sprees and force him to model all his new purchases for her? Who would be his best friend now?

There was an odd keening noise rending the air, and it wasn't until he heard Potter attempting to hush him that Draco realized the sound was coming from  _him_. When his legs had failed to hold him up, Potter had caught him and maneuvered him into an armchair. He was leaning over Draco, firm grip on the blond's upper arms, staring at him intently—eyes so green, so close, so concerned.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he murmured, voice burning with sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

"Tell me it's some sort of sick joke," Draco begged, refusing to believe it. It simply could not be true. This was some elaborately cruel practical joke that the man was clearly playing on him. "You got me, I fell for it, congratulations, you tricked me into proving I have a heart. Weasley can come out from under the Invisibility Cloak now." He glanced around as if expecting copper hair to suddenly appear laughing from midair. Or maybe what he was really looking for was Pansy's vicious trademark smirk as she tumbled gracefully through the fireplace, clearly in on the joke. Where was she? Why would she keep Draco waiting like this? She was the last person he would describe as patient—how was she still keeping herself hidden?

But the look on Potter's face, so earnest and pained, quenched any deluded hope Draco might have convinced himself to give into. "No, Draco, I wish it were. I'm so sorry." His words were sincere and pitying and it was the latter emotion that Draco latched onto, allowing it to cement into a rage that steadied him, gave him something to focus on. He would not be pitied by Harry Potter.

"How did she die?" Draco's voice was quiet, even quieter than Potter's had been when he had begun explaining the reason for his visit, but there was a cold fury that laced it until his words sounded splintered and sharp, like ice cracking. The flames in the fireplace flickered and dimmed, burning down to nothing but the embers, which pulsed and glowed with a dangerous energy.

At the question, Potter dropped his arms from their hold on Draco and straightened, shaking his head. "We're not quite sure yet," he responded, avoiding the blond's eye.

"Tell me, Potter," Draco demanded harshly. He had to know. He had to know everything. Most importantly, he had to know who to track down. He had to know who was to pay—because  _somebody_  would pay. The least he could do for the girl he had known his entire life was to avenge her death in the most savage, merciless way he knew how. His mind began flicking through possibilities, attempting to come up with the most horrific retribution he could possibly imagine, which, being the son of Lucius Malfoy, was a staggering number of options.

But Potter only continued to shake his head, as if he knew exactly what Draco was thinking. "No, not now," he said gently. "Once I know more, I will let you know. But I didn't come here to discuss the details with you."

With a start, his earlier words came back to Draco, punching a hole through the thick barrier of grief surrounding him and causing his eyelids to slide shut.  _We've identified the pattern in the attacks_. The pattern in the attacks. Multiple attacks. Pansy was a targeted victim, and not the first.

"Who else has died?" His voice was weary, already certain he knew the motive behind the crime. He knew exactly why Potter was there.

"Theodore Nott was the first victim." The voice came from farther away and Draco's eyes snapped open to find that Potter had retreated several paces, sitting in his original armchair and gazing at Draco with slight reservation, as if expecting him to lash out in his grief.

At the name, Draco felt his insides sinking, as though gravity had increased its hold on his organs and was dragging them painfully through his body toward the earth. "Theo is dead?" There was a lifeless feeling creeping through his veins, numbing his body into place. Draco hadn't seen Theo in over a year. For a time after the war, most of the graduating Slytherins had found themselves ostracized by the wizarding world, keeping in even closer contact with each other as a result. But as time passed, most of the group had pulled away, until Pansy was finally the only one that he still kept in regular contact with. He didn't even talk to Greg anymore.

With a sharp pang, Draco's eyes shot back to Potter's face. "Who else?" How many of his friends had been killed without his knowledge? How had this been going on for  _months_  without Draco knowing?

Potter fidgeted with his hem for a moment and Draco wondered if he was always this flustered in murder cases or if it was because he had attended school for years with all of the victims. "We figured out they're targeting all of the Slytherins in our year." Potter sounded uncomfortable and Draco had to fight the urge to leap from his seat and shake the names from his sympathetic lips.

"Who else, Potter?" Draco demanded. Now was not the time for games or evasive words. He needed answers so he could begin exacting vengeance.

"Tracey Davis was next." He sounded curiously regretful. Was he faking regret for Draco's sake? Had he always cared about the Slytherins this much? Or did he only care now that they were no longer breathing? "Millicent Bulstrode was found a few weeks after." He paused and Draco was terrified to hear the next name. Would it be Greg? Blaise? He had never befriended Daphne, but he certainly did not want to hear about her murder. "Then Pansy was discovered yesterday."

An interesting wave of both heart-wrenching sorrow at the reminder of her death and intense relief that the list was at an end crashed through Draco's body. "So you're here to what?  _Save_  me?" They had sent Potter himself to the Manor to speak with him; clearly, they were taking this seriously—which could only mean that the brutality of the crimes had not been exaggerated. "What about the others?" Were Greg and Blaise safe?

"I'm actually here about both those things," Potter admitted. "The victims haven't been chosen in any particular order that we can find, so our plan for the time being is to round up the remaining Slytherins until we can get more answers on who's behind it. But we're having trouble locating Zabini and Goyle."

"But why now?" The question fell from Draco's lips in one soft breath. "The war is over, we've paid for our sins. We're still paying for them. None of them even had the Mark."

"This sort of misplaced vengeance doesn't follow reason, Draco," Potter responded just as softly. "It's blind, mindless. But I won't allow anything to happen to anyone else."

For the briefest of moments, Draco felt comforted, special. Harry Potter wanted to protect him? Three years ago he would have been annoyed, but now he felt oddly okay with having the brunet near. But then the situation once more slammed heavily into his chest, driving the air from his lungs.

"You can't promise that, Potter," Draco whispered. The Auror couldn't stay near him at all hours, couldn't spend all his time watching over the blond. No matter what the papers said or Potter may have believed, he could not protect everyone from everything. He could not protect Draco from this scorching hatred, consuming anything that stood before it in a fiery path of destructive loathing. It had already taken so many of his friends—some of whom he had known since  _birth_. It would not hesitate to devour Draco as well.

"I can and I am," Potter responded stubbornly, and Draco wanted to smile but with the next heartbeat, he was once again swept away in the hollow, empty feeling that echoed through him. Remaining as silent as the painful throb in his chest, Draco simply inclined his head.

"Do you know how to get in contact with Goyle or Zabini?" the Auror asked, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. It was a casual enough move, but one that automatically drew Draco's attention to the other man's firm biceps, flexing appealingly beneath his sleeves. If Pansy had been there, she would most likely have had something crass and obscene to say about the man.

With a sharp jab of hurt, Draco realized that he would never again hear another one of her crude innuendos or inappropriate jokes. That wicked sense of humor—so unique to her, so endearingly bitchy—that she had possessed was gone forever. It had been stolen away and Draco was determined to see the thief pay. And suffer. He was extremely focused on the suffering aspect.

"Draco?" The single word was accompanied by a touch, just the lightest pressure atop his knee as Potter leaned across the short distance separating them to lay a hand on Draco's leg.

And all Draco could think in that moment was a bemused  _Harry Potter is touching me voluntarily._  For the first time in his memory, Harry Potter was touching him in a way that was neither violent nor done out of the necessity of a life-threatening situation. He was touching Draco out of  _concern_. Potter was worried about him, it was splashed all over his face. Maybe his promise really was genuine.

"I'm sorry, what?" Draco shook his head lightly. The touch had distracted him and he had completely forgotten Potter's original question.

The Auror smiled a tiny, sad smile. "Do you know how to get in contact with Goyle or Zabini?"

As Draco pondered the words, Potter's hand remained a warm comfort on his knee. The question was more difficult than he would have liked to admit. When had he last spoken to either Greg or Blaise? It was shameful, but he honestly was not sure where either of them had ended up. Blaise, he had lost contact with for obvious reasons—their breakup had not ended well and they had both decided to keep their distance. Draco had only a vague idea of where to begin looking.

And Greg, last he heard, had left the country, now residing somewhere in Germany with his mother's relatives. His mother, however, still lived in their old home. Greg's father had died in Azkaban and his mother had been placed under house arrest. Even after her sentence was served, she was never seen leaving the house, choosing instead to have their one remaining elf continue to run all of the errands for her. She would be the only one left in the country that Greg would have any contact with. It hurt that Draco was no longer on that list, in a way that he had not truly noticed until that moment.

"Possibly Greg, but Blaise might prove to be difficult," Draco answered slowly. There was a twinge of loss as Potter moved his hand and sat up to peer at him.

"How long do you think it would take to track them down?" Potter wondered, slipping into the same business-like tone he had adopted earlier when first speaking about the attacks.

Draco shrugged. "With Greg, if he is where I believe him to be, it shouldn't be too difficult. But Blaise and I have not kept in touch for several months."

For a moment, Potter looked as if he wanted to ask about the reasons behind that, but managed to refrain. "All right, then. Should I wait here for you to pack your things?" He stared at Draco politely, as if the blond had any hope of making sense of that question. Why should his things be packed and why the fuck did Potter think that was something he would do  _himself_?

"And why is that, exactly?" He had been hoping for a drawling sort of disapproval, but the words sounded more confused than anything to his own ears.

"Well, the safe house has been readied for you, so we'll get you there and then we can find Goyle and Zabini." Potter sounded confident, as though already assured that Draco would go along with his stupendously idiotic plan.

"As if any of that is going to happen," Draco informed him coolly. "I shall be staying here. If you wish to play watchdog, then it will be in my own home."

Potter blinked at him for several moments. "You can't stay here, Malfoy," he spoke slowly. "There is a Ministry-approved safe house waiting for us. The other Aurors are already aware of the location and the situation, we can protect you much better there."

"As if I need your protection," Draco scoffed, ignoring the tiny voice that reminded him of his disturbing new desire to be protected by Potter. "Also, I trust nothing 'Ministry-approved', and after the war and the trials have no desire to place myself anywhere near another Auror." The other man's mouth began opening as if to speak, but Draco continued before he could form words. "I am tuned into the wards and know every centimeter of this property, as well as possess an in-depth understanding of the estate's defenses. I guarantee that I shall be both safer and much more comfortable here than in any hovel you've deemed adequate." As he finished speaking, he crossed his arms and stared at Potter with a defiant expression fixed to his face. When had he ever just given into the brunet so easily?

Potter pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, mumbling under his breath. Draco caught the barest snatches of his mutters, random words such as "same" and "never change", as well as his name and what suspiciously sounded to be a rather impressive array of profanity. He merely kept his arms folded and waited for Potter to look up.

"Fine, Malfoy," he sighed, finally raising those famous green eyes to meet Draco's own. "I'll talk to the others, tell them about the change of location." He stood abruptly, signaling an end to their horrifying discussion. "I want these attacks stopped. I want this person found." His voice was low and threatening, sending a shudder through Draco, as well as the unexplainable urge to cry. God, he hadn't cried in  _years_. But then, Pansy hadn't ever been snatched so viciously from his life before that day.

Potter must have seen the expression because he stepped closer and placed a hand on Draco's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to stop them in time. I'm sorry I couldn't save her."

At his words, Draco felt hysterical laughter threatening to spill from deep within his throat. "You can't save everyone, Potter!" The hand on his shoulder felt suddenly far too hot, the touch now somehow scalding. Draco jerked his shoulder away in one sharp movement, standing and stepping backwards out of Potter's blistering grip. "You hated her!" he accused, glaring at the Auror. "You hate all of us!" He was breathing heavily, straining beneath anger that felt like a physical burden weighing him down, one he was struggling to carry.

"I don't, though," Potter insisted, both hands raised palm out in a gesture intended to convey he meant no harm. But Potter had never been on their side—he had hated Draco from the very beginning. That kind of enmity was not something that would just disappear. There was no way Potter was sincere, no way he was there to risk his life protecting a bunch of Slytherins from some deranged, murderous sociopath. There was no way Draco could trust the man or his motives.

At the moment, however, Draco just felt exhausted.

"Please go," he requested weakly, taking another step back and reaching behind him to blindly feel for the wall. Once it was located he leaned against it, willing his knees not to give out this time. Potter took a step forward, most likely to catch Draco  _yet again_ , but he looked up and glared at the brunet fiercely, freezing him mid-step. "Just go," Draco said sharply. "I will contact the others, I promise. But for now…" his feeble voice trailed off as the glare melted away and he slumped once more against the wall in defeat. "For now I just…I can't. I need…space. To think. Please." Trying to ignore the fact that he had just used the word  _please_  toward Potter—twice!—in his own fucking home, he glanced up into the other man's face.

Potter was biting his lip and twisting his hands together as if fighting simultaneous urges to both blurt out comforting platitudes and rush forward to force his pity onto the blond. Thankfully he did neither, just stared at him with an unreadable glint in his eyes. "All right," Potter finally said. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, is that okay? I would like to go through the Manor's defenses with you."

Nodding lethargically, Draco placed his palms on his knees and braced his weight, willing himself not to be sick before Potter left. The moment the parlour door clicked shut behind him, Draco was calling hoarsely for his only remaining house-elf, who instantly popped up with a bucket, placing it at Draco's feet and patting his forehead with a damp cloth as the blond hunched over the container, gasping and heaving, salty tears dripping down his nose to mix in with the vomit staring up at him sickeningly. Sobs wracked his lean frame and he wanted nothing more than to lay his head down and sleep forever.

 

oOo

 

Harry sighed as he stared at the spread of parchment surrounding him, willing something, _anything_ , to stand out, make sense, point him in a direction. Any direction. After he left the Manor, he had Apparated straight back to the Ministry, where he had been determined to find  _something_  concrete to offer Malfoy the next day when he returned. The look on his pale face, so broken and desolate, when Harry left had sent a chill down his spine—even several hours later he was still haunted by it.

But Malfoy hadn't wanted his comfort or his sympathy. The only thing that Harry could offer was the name of the person responsible. Whoever it was, however, was proving to be far too evasive. There was no set time frame, the locations were completely random, the order of the victims appeared to be incidental. Even the magical signatures left at the crime scenes were strange—fractured, somehow, as though different sources of shredded magic had been forcibly stitched together only to rip apart from the sheer fury behind the violence of the crimes.

At the thought of the latest attack, Harry sent a queasy look toward the violet folder buried beneath a stack of parchment. The folder contained the photographs of the various crime scenes, pictures that Harry felt he would never be able to get out of his brain.

Shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the images, he stood slowly, joints popping. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, deciding to take a short break from staring at the infuriating case notes to walk down to the lab and check on any updates.

Squeezing out from behind his desk, he exited the empty office he shared with Ron and began heading down the hall, in no hurry to reach his destination. Several colleagues greeted him as he passed, and he returned the greetings half-heartedly, unable to muster up the ability to care much, even when Neville stopped to say hello.

The case was beginning to take a toll on him, after nearly four months of being forced to pick through the remains of his old classmates. Malfoy was right—the crimes seemed to make no sense. Why seek vengeance now, years after the Final Battle, when everyone was attempting to move on? Why seek vengeance on Slytherins, and not ex-Death Eaters? As far as he knew, Malfoy was the only one from their year with the Mark, and he was still alive. Not every Slytherin had the Dark Mark. And why only Slytherins from Harry's year?

If he would be able to pin down some sort of motive, it would give him a focal point, something to go off, instead of stumbling blindly around the evidence. The violence of the crimes suggested it was personal—that the killer had been intimately acquainted with the victims. But given the history and reputation of those particular Slytherins, as well as the nation's distrust and oftentimes outright hatred of the House, they couldn't count on the killer having some sort of established relationship with the deceased, and there were too many people connecting all of the victims to even attempt to pin it down. Most of the Slytherins involved were from old families and had been acquainted since birth.

Sighing, Harry reached the door of the lab and twisted the knob, preparing himself for another dead end. Swinging the door wide, he stepped inside and scanned the room for the familiar shock of platinum hair. As it popped up suddenly from behind a large square table covered in various artifacts, Harry couldn't help but smile.

"Hullo, Caelix."

"Well, look who fucking decided to visit," Caelix greeted, a wide grin stretching his face. As Harry's eyes glanced him over in amusement, he wondered for possibly the thousandth time how Caelix had ever been hired into the Ministry. His hair was bleached nearly white, magenta-tipped bangs cutting across his forehead to cover one eye while the back stuck up in untamed spikes. Harry could not recall ever seeing him in anything resembling a work outfit—instead, he always wore tight jeans and faded t-shirts of Muggle bands the Auror had never heard of, as well as a pair of black trainers so worn out and scruffy that even Harry pitied them. He had more piercings than Harry even wanted to attempt to count—mostly in his ears, but he had a violet hoop circled near the right corner of his bottom lip, as well as a blue one encircling one nostril. He had two multicolored jeweled bars through his left eyebrow, the same one he was raising at Harry's gaze.

"I can't believe Kingsley lets you into work like that," the brunet snorted.

"My brilliance outshines my uncouth appearance," Caelix smirked, stepping nimbly around the table to stand close to Harry. "So, what can I do for you, Auror Potter?"

With the heavy reminder of why Harry had gone to the lab weighing him down once more, he sighed. "I'm here to check on any updates in the Parkinson case, and any of the connecting cases, if you've found anything new."

Already resigned to leaving empty-handed, he was taken aback by the sudden gleam in Caelix's turquoise eyes. "There is something," he confessed, glancing around as if afraid of eavesdroppers. Harry immediately stepped closer, looking down at the table like the answers were spelled out across its surface. "Now I haven't finished going through everything yet," he apologized, but Harry just waved it off. It had only been a day, after all.

"Just show me what you found, Cae, whatever it is," the brunet insisted, his impatience a chalky coating deep in his throat.

"Are you going to say please?" the other man asked cheekily, hastening to continue at the look Harry gave him. "All right, all right, don't go all Chosen One on me, I'm only fucking teasing, I'm not Voldemort."

Harry smiled. That was another reason he liked the man so much. Caelix was one of the few people able to say Voldemort's name in such a casual manner, something that not even Ron was comfortable doing.

Fighting back a snort, Harry gestured for him to proceed with the explanation.

"All right, so!" Caelix clapped his hands together eagerly, clearly excited to have an audience to explain his work to. "Now the crime scenes as you know have all been left with a fair amount of magical residue." Rolling his eyes, Harry nodded. The residue had been staggering nearly every time, the crime scenes still crackling with Dark magic by the time the Aurors arrived. "So of course, examining the residue was the first priority in the most recent murder."

Harry felt an unpleasant twinge in his stomach at the mention of murder. He had been an Auror for quite a while now, seen so much on the job, and yet this was different. These had all been people that Harry  _knew_ , people he had known for years, just there on the edges of his adolescence, but always  _there_ , even if he hadn't wanted them to be at the time.

"So what did you find?" he prompted, wanting to chase the morbid thoughts from his brain by focusing on the case.

"The signature was different," Caelix proclaimed dramatically, and Harry had to fight the urge to roll his eyes again and seize Caelix by the shoulders roughly in order to shake the rest of the answers from him.

"Different how?" Was it a new signature? Was this an opening in the case? Was there more than one person involved? Had they finally slipped up, left something behind?

"Well, for the first three murders,"—Harry wished he would stop using that word—"the signature was jumbled, fractured, like the magic had been broken before the attacks as opposed to breaking as a result of them." Nodding, Harry silently urged him to continue. "We couldn't piece the magic back together, or even determine a source for it. It was as if the magic had been contained within something and unleashed all at once. But this time," the glint was back in his eyes, "there were a few shattered strands I was able to trace back to a single conduit."

Frustration began building within Harry and he bit down hard on his impatience. What the hell was Caelix talking about? "You mean a wand?" Harry felt confused. How else had the crimes been committed? How else was the magic being channeled? "Can you find the wand?" he asked excitedly, but his face fell at the shake of Cae's head.

"It's not a magical signature I recognize or have been able to trace," he admitted, scuffing one frayed black trainer against the floor as though embarrassed by his failure.

"It's all right," Harry said automatically. This was already more than they had that morning. "What else did you find out about it?"

"Well, you might want to take a look at this first." Caelix handed him an olive-colored file, one Harry immediately recognized as the autopsy report. The autopsies were performed in a separate lab located close to the one they were in, but one that only several few, Caelix included, had access to. As far as Harry knew, the autopsies were performed entirely with magic, although that was as much as he knew about the process.

Opening the folder, he quickly began scanning the report, eyes widening in surprise. "She was killed differently?"

Nodding, Caelix tapped the top parchment. "The first three died of blood loss from magically-induced torture. The attacker would tie them up and essentially mutilate them to death, but this latest death was particularly brutal." At the words, Harry's mind flashed back to Malfoy's expression, his reaction even before Harry had informed him of the attack. As if he had somehow known exactly what Harry had been going to say. At the thought, Harry felt sick, but he took a deep breath and gestured for Caelix to continue. "Now, from what I can tell from following the fractured strands I've managed to piece together, it started out more or less the same."

"The Cruciatus," Harry whispered.

"The Cruciatus," Caelix affirmed. "And that went on for what I can only describe as a horrifyingly unnecessary length of time."

Harry felt nauseous. "And that's when it turns different?"

"Yes, at that point, that's usually when the gorier forms of torture make an appearance, such as hacking, slicing, dismembering, those fucked-up sorts of things." The calm tone of Cae's voice barely held back the disgust lancing his words.

"So what happened this time?" Harry didn't want to hear, he didn't want to know, but even if his job did not rely on his learning this information, he still wouldn't have been able to make himself plug his ears.

"Well, that's when things get interesting," Caelix said in a grim voice. "There was another magical strain at the crime scene that I was able to trace to the victim's wand—several shielding charms and random curses had been thrown."

"She fought back?" Harry felt his eyes widen in surprise. None of the other victims had shown any signs of fighting back, even though they had been discovered with their wands not too far from their remains, which were admittedly spread out over quite a distance.

"For a while, at least," Caelix responded sadly. "She was overpowered, however, and her attacker did not take kindly to her attempts at escape."

"The report says she died from burns," said Harry slowly. "He burnt her to death?" As the words left his mouth, his mind flung him back to that day three years ago, flames crackling around him, leaping toward him, scorching fingers stretching upwards hotly as he tried to outfly them, choking on thick smoke as he dropped toward familiar blond hair and pulled Malfoy onto the back of his broom—he still remembered the sounds of the Slytherin's grief when he realized Crabbe had not made it out.

"Harry? Harry!" A voice broke through his painful memories, snapping him back into the present.

"Sorry," he muttered, rolling his shoulders and attempting to ignore the strange look Caelix was giving him. "So, he burnt her to death?"

"Well, yes," Caelix affirmed, still staring at Harry curiously. "He used magic to more or less incinerate her from the inside out. It was the magical equivalent of shoving a burning fucking fist down her throat and slowly melting her organs one at a time."

Try as he might, Harry could not fight back the shudder that shook him at the statement. Even though he had never liked Parkinson and she had wanted to turn him over to Voldemort, her death was a fate far undeserved.

"Yeah, it's fucking nasty, isn't it?" Caelix wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Do you think the nature of the attack was changed because she fought back? Or because she had more of an emotional tie to the attacker?" If Parkinson had been killed that savagely for personal reasons, as opposed to simply enraging the attacker with her attempted escape, it would be something to go off.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, P," Caelix patted his shoulder apologetically. "I simply analyze the evidence, not infer motive. That's what you crimsons are for." His words were accompanied by a nod toward Harry's Auror robes.

"Is there anything else you can tell me right now?" asked Harry, and if his voice was slightly desperate, Caelix didn't comment on it.

"At the moment, you're all up-to-date, I'm afraid," he shrugged. "I'll keep looking, though."

"Well, if you find anything,  _anything_ , Cae, owl me immediately, yeah? Or just bring it straight to my office."

"But darling," Caelix smirked, "what would the Department say if they saw me just sauntering in and out of your office whenever I took a fancy?"

"Probably that we were working on a case, you prat," Harry grinned, lightly shoving at his chest with one hand.

"A case you'll solve very soon, I've no doubt about that," said Caelix, oddly serious for once, all traces of his earlier teasing gone.

"Yeah, well, I promised someone I would." Shrugging uncomfortably, Harry shifted the olive folder in his grip and took a step backwards.

"Don't be a fucking stranger now, Harry Potter," Caelix called after him, already turning his attention back to the table in front of him.

Ducking into the corridor, Harry clutched the folder to his chest and leaned against the wall, taking several deep breaths before shoving away and walking quickly back to his office. Once inside, he was relieved to see Ron seated at his desk, facing Harry's own across the room.

"Oi! Where you been?" Ron demanded. "How did it go with Malfoy? Got him all squirreled away in the safe house, then?"

Shaking his head, Harry crossed the office to deposit the folder on Ron's desk.

"You got the autopsy report already?" Ron's eyebrows rose as he opened it and began reading.

"Yeah, but Caelix is still sorting through everything else," Harry informed him, resisting the urge to rub his temples.

"Ah, Caelix, what would we do without him?" Ron sighed, tapping one long finger against the parchment he was still scanning.

"Well, it sounds like you would fantasize a lot less, for one thing," Harry smirked, crossing his arms and staring down at the other man in amusement.

"As if, mate," his ginger partner scoffed. "First of all: I'm engaged. To a woman, with female anatomy. And second: Cae's only got eyes for you."

Unable to help himself, Harry threw his head back and laughed. "What are you talking about, Ron?"

The other man responded with a pitying look. "Do you think he flirts with everybody, Harry?"

"He does not  _flirt_  with me!" the brunet exclaimed. What was Ron talking about? Caelix didn't treat him any differently than any of the other Aurors.

"Whatever you say," Ron chuckled, dropping the folder onto the desk. "So, what happened with Malfoy, then?"

Crossing to his desk, Harry dropped into his chair and sighed heavily. "God, I've never seen him like that." Just the memory gave him a sharp pang in his chest. He had seen Malfoy at several different low points throughout the man's life, but his reaction to Parkinson's death had been different—more painful to watch.

"Didn't take the news well?" asked Ron, twirling a quill between his fingers as he continued scanning the olive folder.

Shaking his head, Harry sighed again. "He also refused the safe house. He's insisted on remaining at the Manor."

"Course he did, the entitled berk," Ron snorted. "Can't fight his nature of making everything more difficult for everyone involved, even when they're trying to help him."

"I think he feels safer there," Harry reasoned quietly, not exactly sure why he felt the need to defend the blond. Maybe it had been the promise he had made earlier to protect him.

"Yeah, Merlin knows how," Ron muttered. "So what's the plan, then?"

"I'm going back over tomorrow to go over the Manor's defenses with him and he's promised to try to track down Goyle and Zabini in the meantime." Harry had no idea if either of them were even still in the country. Wilona Goyle had refused to lower the wards or come out to speak to them and Zamora Zabini had remarried and relocated. The Aurors had been unable to find any remaining family members of either of the two men left in the country.

"Well, in the meantime, we have paperwork," Ron grimaced and made a face at the large stack of parchment to his right. Groaning loudly, Harry levitated half the stack onto his desk and grudgingly began.

What felt like days later, he was throwing the quill aside and climbing to his feet. "Right, I can't do this anymore tonight," he said, stretching his aching muscles. "I need a fucking drink."

"Merlin's saggy fucking bollocks, yes," Ron grumbled in agreement, tossing his quill away from him with a look of disgust.

Making their way up the lifts to the Atrium, they crossed to the Floos and headed straight to the Leaky Cauldron. Ron immediately pulled Harry over to a table and ordered for them both. As they sat waiting for their drinks, Harry glanced around the tiny room, automatically noting the exits and observing the people around him.

"Mate, we're off duty, relax." Ron nudged one of the drinks that had just been set down toward the raven-haired man.

Harry picked up the glass and waved Ron off with his other hand. "Is Hermione okay with you coming out with me like this?"

"Christ, I'm engaged, not imprisoned." Ron rolled his eyes. "And if there's anyone she trusts me around, it's you."

"Yeah, well, we'll see how much she still trusts me when I drop your pissed arse off on her doorstep at two in the morning," Harry joked.

Ron grinned and gave Harry a salute with his glass before draining nearly half the liquid.

Smiling back, Harry picked up his own drink and followed suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that is the first chapter. I hope nobody was disappointed. At this point in time, I'm hopeful—perhaps to the point of childlike naivety—that I will be updating this story at least once a week. We shall see. The important thing is that I am remaining optimistic about it all. I'll try not to OD on poetry in the meantime! Til next time, friends!
> 
> p.s. in case anybody was wondering, the title is taken from a Dylan Thomas poem, the complete name of which is "Among Those Killed in the Dawn Raid Was a Man Aged A Hundred".
> 
> At this moment in my life, I'm not putting too much faith in my ability to refrain from ODing on poetry. One day I shall seek help. But until then, I will be spending my free time at my dealer's crack den, more commonly referred to as a "public library".
> 
> Au Revoir, lovers!


	2. If I Could Forget

 

 _How happy I was if I could forget_  
_To remember how sad I am_  
_Would be an easy adversity_  
_But the recollecting of Bloom_

 _Keeps making November difficult_  
_Till I who was almost bold_  
_Lose my way like a little Child_  
_And perish of the cold._

"How Happy I Was if I Could Forget"– Emily Dickinson

 

* * *

 

Harry woke with a groan and sat up slowly. For a few dizzying moments, the room tilted and spun, but it righted itself quickly enough. Throwing back the blankets, he climbed gingerly from the bed and headed automatically to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

Deciding he was already wet, he took a quick shower before struggling into his Auror robes and tumbling through the Floo.

As he exited the lift and headed down the hallway toward his office, he changed his mind as he passed the lab, deciding to stop and check with Caelix first thing. His quiet rapping on the door sounded uncomfortably loud to him when his head was still pounding.

"Do fucking come in then, if you must," a voice called through the wood.

The knob twisted easily and the door swung open to reveal an irate Caelix, but his expression smoothed the instant he noticed who it was.

"Oh, hey, P," he greeted, violet hoop rising as the corners of his mouth tugged up into a smile.

"Morning, C," Harry responded, attempting a grin. He wasn't quite sure when they had started addressing each other by letters, but it had been for quite a while now and was second nature to them both.

"And what can I do for you this fine morning?" the other man asked, placing his palms wide apart on the table and leaning toward Harry. "From the look of things, a coffee or another six hours of sleep would probably be best."

Nodding was a bad idea, Harry decided with a wince. "Ron is a sick bastard."

Caelix chuckled. "That ginger trying to do you in again? When are you gonna learn to maybe not drink with him?"

"Well, if I survive the morning, I'll know then," Harry said weakly, glaring as Caelix laughed.

"So are you here just to spend time with my charming self?" he grinned, leaning in further across the table. "Or is this work-related?"

"Did you find anything new?" asked Harry, rolling his eyes.

"Unfortunately not." The response was frustrated, an uncharacteristic emotion for the normally cheerful man. "I'm still attempting to piece the magic back together, but it's very difficult and involved and is taking far fucking longer than I expected."

Harry nodded. It certainly sounded difficult enough. "It's all right, Cae, nobody expects very much from you."

"Oi, fuck off!" Caelix laughed. "I'll find something."

"Yeah, I know you will," Harry grinned. "But honestly, its fine. Now I'll have enough time to finish my paperwork before I head back over to Malfoy Manor."

"Christ, I can't believe he convinced you to set up there," Caelix shook his head and smirked. "Is this bloke incredibly fit or something?"

"I've known him for ten years," was the simple reply. It felt odd, to think that Harry had known Draco Malfoy for ten years, practically half his life.

"Ah, childhood lovers, were you?" Even though the other man's tone was teasing, Harry blanched. He and Malfoy had been far more likely to kill each other rather than kiss each other while attending school. Noticing the expression cross Harry's face, Caelix's smirk deepened. "Oooh, schoolyard rivals, then, is that it?"

At the pointed stare the brunet gave him, Caelix laughed and raised his palms. "All right, fine. I'll give up for now," he relented. "But know that soon enough it will be me and not Ronald that is getting you piss arse drunk if that's what it takes to get you to talk. I want to know all your secrets, Potter." His eyes burned into Harry's, green and turquoise pairs staring into each other, unblinking, for long moments before Harry coughed and turned away.

"I should get to that paperwork, then, probably," Harry stumbled half a step backward before righting himself and grimacing as Caelix's lips twitched.

"Sure, you go vanquish that paperwork, you big manly Auror, you," he grinned.

Responding with a smile and a two-finger salute, Harry turned to leave. As the door swung shut behind him, he heard Caelix call out, "Don't be a fucking stranger now, Harry Potter."

 

_Paperwork is more evil than Voldemort_ , Harry decided, as he finally threw his quill down and stretched. The stack of parchment had taken the entire morning to get through and Harry's stomach was growling. He had foregone breakfast that morning on account of his nausea but was now ready to attempt to eat something.

As though reading his mind, Ron set aside his quill and turned to him. "I'm bloody starving, mate. Come on." He rose from his chair and waited impatiently for Harry. They headed to the Atrium, deciding to reward themselves for their finished reports by going out for lunch. They waved to Neville as they passed and invited him along, but he declined politely, claiming he had more casework to do.

Flooing directly into the Den of the Lion, a pub in Hogsmeade opened by Seamus and Dean not too long after the Final Battle, they took a seat at the bar and ordered sandwiches. As the woman behind the counter began rattling off ale prices, Harry's stomach started to turn and he looked away. Glancing around, Harry was disappointed to see neither Seamus nor Dean anywhere.

Their sandwiches arrived quickly enough, but Harry picked at his slowly, not sure he was ready to head to the Manor just yet. If he was being honest with himself, he felt apprehensive about being near Malfoy again. He no longer had any idea what to expect from the blond, or what type of person he had become in the time after the war. His grief had been wrenching to witness and Harry was certain that he had been holding himself together in the brunet's presence. He did not want to witness Malfoy's mourning, but he also did not want the man to be left on his own, especially with his name currently on a dwindling list of victims.

Pushing away the rest of his lunch, Harry sighed and pulled a few sickles from his pocket to deposit on the bar before standing and turning to Ron. "I should head over to see Malfoy now."

"Good luck, mate," Ron sympathized. "Don't take any shit from the prat, yeah?"

Nodding absently, Harry exited the pub to the cool air of the alley, breathing deeply for several minutes before Disapparating to Wiltshire.

 

oOo

 

By the time Draco woke and dragged himself from bed, the sky had filled with a dismal amount of overly-bright sunshine that seemed to delight in blinding him, piercing directly through his eyelids with stabbing heat.

Even nature wanted him to suffer.

"Pibby!" he groaned, climbing from bed and dropping heavily into a chair in front of a small table. With a ridiculously loud crack, the house-elf popped into the room with a tea tray, depositing it nimbly onto the table.

"Will Master Draco be wanting breakfast, sir?" the tiny creature squeaked, but Draco shook his head. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the elf and poured himself a cup of tea, sighing as he took the first scalding sip.

But not even the sweetness of the tea nor the boiling temperature was enough to wash the dry, ashy taste from his mouth, coating his throat and creeping down into his stomach. Pansy was gone. Theo was gone. Millicent and Tracey were both gone. How had this happened? How had his friends been stolen away just like that? Was he to be next? Would Potter be able to stop whoever it was?

At the thought of Potter, the blond was reminded of the prat's impending visit. Gulping the rest of his tea, he rose from his chair and began shedding clothes, tossing them haphazardly on his way to the bathroom. A long hot shower was what he needed, and then he would deal with Potter.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, hair damp and skin steaming, the clothes tossed onto the floor had been taken away, to be washed and pressed before being returned to hang neatly in their place. As he skimmed through the large wardrobe full of clothing, ripping article after article past in distaste before finally settling on a set of dark grey robes, tailored perfectly to accentuate the blond's slender frame, he paused to wonder why he was putting so much thought into his outfit. It was  _Potter_ , for fuck's sake. Who cared what the git thought?

But as Pibby popped in to inform him that a Mister Harry Potter was awaiting Master Draco in the foyer, Draco felt his heart rate pick up. Instructing Pibby to show the man to the first-floor study, Draco fussed with his robes for several minutes and took his time making sure his hair was perfect. It wasn't about wanting to look good for Potter; it was about intimidation, as was his tactic with making the man wait.

However, as Draco entered the study and Potter turned to face him, his palms felt sweaty and his mouth went dry and he wasn't quite sure how well he would be able to pull off any sort of intimidation. Swallowing any nerves he felt, Draco schooled his features into his usual unreadable mask and stepped closer. As he neared, he noticed Potter looked paler than usual, as though he hadn't gotten much sleep. Out late cracking the case, with any luck.

Firmly deciding he did not care what Potter had to say about the early hour, Draco crossed the room to the heavy crystal decanter of brandy and poured himself a generous amount. Taking a large sip, he turned to assess the Auror. "So what is the plan for the day, Potter?" he asked indifferently, praying that neither his nerves nor sadness showed through to the brunet.

"I thought you could show me around the property, talk me through the defenses, that sort of thing," Potter shrugged and a small flash of discomfort crossed his features at the movement.

"Are you all right?" Draco asked, telling himself that the concern in his voice was due entirely to the worry for his own well-being. If Potter was ill, he would hardly be at his best to track down any criminals or attempt to defend anybody.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Potter retorted wryly, face softening into apologetic lines as Draco's lips thinned. "I'm fine, Malfoy. I just stayed too late at the pub last night, is all."

"Drinking like that on a weekday, what would your adoring fans say?" Draco tsked as he turned to address empty air. "Pibby!" With a sharp crack that made Potter wince, the house-elf appeared, wringing his hands.

"Yes, Master Draco, sir? Is there something you is needing, sir?"

"Fetch a Pain Relieving Potion for Potter here, if you would, Pibby," he drawled, dismissing the elf.

"I'm fine, Malfoy, really, you don't need—"

"Potter," Draco interrupted smoothly. "I have enough potions to spare on your hungover arse, it's no problem. I would offer you a hangover cure, but at this point, it is only likely to make you more ill." As he finished speaking, Pibby popped back into the room, handing the potion and a glass of water to Potter. He stared at them both for a second before giving Draco an apologetic glance as he raised his wand and whispered several words. Apparently satisfied, he downed the tiny bottle of dark liquid and grimaced.

"Er, right, well, thanks," he offered awkwardly as he sipped at the water.

Waving aside the gratitude, Draco sank gracefully into the nearest armchair. "So, have you found anything new in the case?" His voice was steady but the hand holding his drink shook slightly, something Potter noticed.

"I can't discuss the details of an ongoing investigation with you, sorry," he said carefully.

"I don't want to know about the entire investigation," Draco argued. Potter could not just tell Draco that Pansy had been brutally murdered and not tell him how. He needed answers. He needed them  _now_. "But I need to know how she d-died." Cursing himself profusely for the uncharacteristic stutter, he stared at the floor and waited as patiently as he could for a response.

"Malfoy…"

Draco frowned at the carpet. That was the third time he had been addressed by his surname. Yesterday he had been Draco. Did Potter only refer to him by his given name when he felt pity for the blond?

The brunet before him began pacing, glancing over at Draco every now and then. As he neared, preparing to spin around to stalk the same patch of floor yet again, Draco reached out and snagged one of his wrists to halt him.

"Please, Potter," Draco murmured. "Pansy was…" Steeling himself, he took a deep breath before continuing. "She was all I had. The only one I had left." As the truth of those words struck him, he dropped the wrist in his grasp and buried his face in his hands, forcing his lungs to continue working, dragging deep breaths down his anguished throat. Pansy was gone, Father was in Azkaban, Mother had relocated to France immediately following Lucius' sentencing. He no longer kept in contact with Greg or Blaise, and he had lost the others even before their deaths.

A hand dropped onto his shoulder and gripped tightly. Startled, he glanced up to find Potter leaning over him, green eyes so earnest, so near. "I'm sorry." His voice burned with sympathy—a sympathy that made Draco's skin itch with discomfort. How dare Potter pity him? "But I  _will_  solve this; I will catch whoever is responsible."

"How about instead of making promises we've yet to see results on, you just tell me what you know at present?" Draco suggested, attempting his trademark drawl, but it sounded far too weak even to his own ears.

With a sigh, Potter released the man's shoulder and took the armchair across from him. "We still don't really know very much at this point," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "But this latest attack was different from the others." As Draco opened his mouth to demand to know exactly in what way it differed, Potter hastened to continue, "It's too early for me to be speaking about it to you, so I can't discuss it. But," he hesitated for a moment, "she fought, Malfoy. She didn't just give up. She fought back."

A light shudder wracked Draco's slender frame as his eyes stung. Fighting the urge to rub them, he glanced up at Potter and attempted a watery smile. "Sounds like Pans. She never could do anything quietly, you know. She always had to make everything difficult for everyone around her." She was the only other person Draco had known whose tantrums could rival his own, and she had never been afraid to make a scene.

"I remember," Potter smiled, and at the sight, Draco felt the urge to change the subject.

"So, what shining knights of judicial protection have been deemed replaceable enough to stand between myself and savage vengeance?" Sarcasm was his safety net—he could always count on sarcasm.

"Well, I would personally like to think I'm a bit more difficult to replace," the other man deadpanned, and Draco nearly snorted.

"Of course you are, Potter," he said, shaking his head.

"Ron and I have been assigned to you and, if we can find them, Goyle and Zabini. A new Auror, Triggs, has been assigned to Greengrass."

"Why have I been assigned the two Golden Gryffindors and Daphne gets a rookie?" Draco wasn't quite sure what to make of the new information.

"Well, Ron and I volunteered for it, actually," Potter confessed, staring fixedly at his hands.

"You volunteered to watch over us?" Draco felt his eyebrows lift in surprise and disappear beneath his platinum fringe. Did Potter have nothing better to do with his time than look after people he despised?

"Well, we were assigned to the case, but we volunteered to look after you all," he shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "We  _know_ you lot, you know?" He shrugged again.

"You don't know us, Potter," Draco disagreed softly.  _You don't know_ me.

"I've known you for ten years, Malfoy," Potter replied, and for a moment Draco worried that the Auror had somehow learned Legilimency and was now answering his thoughts instead of his words, but he shook off the ridiculous fear.

"We've been  _acquainted_  for ten years," he argued. "We haven't  _known_  one another."

"Well, we'll have time to change that while I'm looking out for you, won't we?" Potter grinned.

Without realizing it, Draco found himself smiling back. "As you wish, stubborn Gryffindor," he sighed, ignoring the thrill that went through him at the thought of getting to know this Potter much better.

"I haven't been a Gryffindor in years, you prat," the brunet chuckled.

Draco merely shrugged. "And yet you still reek of idiocy and low class."

"And you reek of arrogance and zero tact," the other man retorted. Still chuckling, Potter cracked his neck and glanced around the room. "So, any luck with finding Goyle or Zabini?"

Pulling a face, Draco shook his head. "I actually haven't tried yet," he admitted. He didn't mention how he had been in no state the previous night to contact anybody.

"I understand," Potter murmured. "Would you like me to wait somewhere else while you do?"

"Of course not, Potter," he dismissed. "Pibby!" The house-elf cracked into view, with a quill, ink, and parchment clutched in his tiny fists. "Pibby, I need—" he paused as he noticed what the elf was holding. "Ah, yes, thank you, Pibby." Taking the items from the elf, he hunched over the table and began drafting a letter to Zamora, simply asking if she knew how to get into contact with Blaise. Once finished, he sealed it and had Pibby owl it for him. It might take a while for the bird to get to her, but the woman was usually fairly quick with her responses.

Once Pibby had vanished with the letter, Draco crossed to the fireplace and took a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantle. Kneeling, he tossed the powder into the flames and called out the address of the home he had spent so much time in as a child. As his head spun rapidly between grates, he ignored the building nausea and waited for it to pass. After a moment the swirl of his surroundings began to slow as everything came back into focus and he found himself staring into an empty room. A house-elf crept cautiously into his line of vision, one who clapped her tiny hands in excitement when she recognized him.

"Oh, Master Draco!" she squeaked happily. "Trilly is not having seen Master Draco in so long, sir!"

"Hello, Trilly," he greeted fondly. It was odd to think affectionately of another family's house-elf, but he had grown up with Trilly just as much as Greg had. "Is Wilona at home?" It was an unnecessary question—he knew she never left the house anymore.

"Yes, sir, Trilly is getting Mistress for Master Draco right away, sir," she chirped, vanishing with a crack. Several long moments passed before he heard the door open and a tall woman stepped into view. At the sight of her familiar features, a wave of nostalgia washed through Draco. She looked so similar and yet so different from how he remembered her. Her hair had once been worn long and flowing and had been the same deep shade of brown as Greg's, but was now seeped with grey and pulled into a tight bun atop her head. Where she had once stood so even and proud, she now had a slight slump to her shoulders, as though fighting the urge to bow her head.

"Draco," she greeted warmly. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

"Good afternoon, Wilona," he greeted politely. "How are you doing?"

"I am quite well, dear," she responded, settling herself into a large armchair before the fire. "And how are you and your mother faring? Is she still in France?"

"We're both well, thank you," he assured untruthfully, knowing the lie would be much easier than trying to explain the truth. "As for Mother, she is indeed still residing in France. I'm afraid she's become rather taken with the country." He chose to edit out how much he dreadfully missed her.

"Yes, well, I hardly blame her for needing to escape Britain," Wilona nodded.

The words caused Draco to frown. He did not like the idea of people thinking that his mother had fled the country, one large reason he had refused to accompany her. He would not allow the ignorant gossip of the masses to turn him into a coward, even if he himself had not personally seen it as running away.

"Now, is this simply a social call?" Wilona asked, cutting through his thoughts. "Or is there something you wish to discuss?"

"The latter, actually," he admitted. "I would like to find Greg and I was hoping you would know how to get in contact with him."

"Oh, did you not know he is no longer in the country?" she asked in surprise.

"I wasn't sure if he was still in Germany," Draco admitted, averting his eyes. How could he have just lost contact with Greg like that? How could he have let all of his friendships slip through his fingers so easily, without even noticing?

"Yes, I'm afraid he is," she told him. "He drops by to visit every so often, however, and it's been some time since his last visit, so he's due for another one quite soon."

"Well, I'll send him a letter and if he visits in the meantime, will you please do me the favor of informing him I wish to see him?" Hopefully, it would all be unnecessary and Greg was safe in another country, far away from any maniacal killers who wanted to hurt Draco's friends.

"Of course, dear, of course," Wilona agreed. "If there's anything else you may need, please do not hesitate to get in touch."

"Thank you, I shall keep that in mind." With a nod of farewell, he pulled his head from the fireplace and turned to find Potter studying him.

"Was he there?" the man asked, green eyes unblinking.

"No, he moved to Germany shortly after the war ended and has been there ever since." As Draco spoke, he stood and brushed off his knees, the painful throb reminding him of why he detested calling by Floo so much.

"That's for the best, then," Potter nodded. "Do you know when we can expect a response from Zabini?"

Shaking his head, Draco sighed. "No, Blaise and I had a bit of a falling out several months ago." A mild term for the way they had ended things. "I wrote to his mother, but she lives somewhere in Italy now and I'm not even sure if she would know how to find him. He's always been…difficult to track down." An understatement, considering the way he used to sneak around behind Draco's back.

"What happened with the two of you?" asked a curious Potter, tilting his head as he stared at Draco. The unexpected question made Draco pause. Was Potter really asking him about his private life? Did he care, perhaps?

"I'm afraid it's rather personal," the blond answered wryly. Did Potter genuinely want to hear the details about his shattered relationship? Did Potter have any interest in hearing about his  _gay_ relationship?

"Sorry, right, of course," Potter flushed.

"It's quite all right," Draco dismissed. "But due to the…er, falling out, I'm not even sure if his mother will tell him I'm looking for him."

"Well, maybe he's out of the country, too," Potter shrugged. "We'll keep trying and hope for the best in the meantime."

At the foolish Gryffindor optimism, Draco had no choice but to roll his eyes. "Relying on hope, God save us all," he muttered.

Rolling his eyes in return, Potter stood and cocked an eyebrow. "So let's check out these defenses you say are better than anything the Ministry can come up with."

"You clearly underestimate the paranoia of my ancestors, Potter, as well as their ability to make enemies," Draco drawled, beckoning to him as he left the room and graciously ignoring the quiet, "I don't fucking doubt it," muttered behind him. As Potter caught up, Draco talked the Auror through the various protections of the estate and could tell by the raised eyebrows that the man was impressed.

They walked closely together, occasionally brushing arms when Draco would turn to explain something. He was close enough to smell the other man's cologne and could see the tiny black hairs creeping across Potter's chin and jaw. The man paid close attention to the lecture, gaze sharp and solidly fixed on Draco, who was finding the entire situation to be much less awkward than he had anticipated. Who knew Harry Potter could be good company?

A short tour was made of the grounds before they headed back into the main house.

"I suppose you're right about being safe enough here," Potter allowed, glancing around as though expecting to see something to refute the statement.

"Does that mean you feel your protection no longer necessary?" Even though he asked the question, Draco was unsure of what he wanted the answer to be. He hated feeling as if he needed to be watched over, by both the Ministry and Harry sodding Potter himself, for fuck's sake, but he also was not sure how much he wanted to be left completely on his own with a killer on the loose and a shining target above his head.

"That's not what I'm saying," Potter shook his head and grinned. "Until this killer is caught, I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Malfoy."

"Lucky me, then," Draco commented dryly, pulse racing at the thought of being stuck anywhere with only Potter for company. He could certainly come up with worse scenarios.

With a rueful shake of his head, Potter smiled. "I should go. I still want to head back over to the lab and see if Cae has found anything else."

"Cae? Is that an Auror?" Perhaps while Draco had been entertaining Potter, Pansy's killer had been found.

"Nah, he works in the lab. Cae's a Tracer," the brunet informed him. "Fucking brilliant one, too. If anyone's gonna solve this, it's gonna be Cae."

It did not exactly comfort Draco to hear Potter admit that he was not expecting to solve the case himself, but at least there was somebody else working in the Ministry that seemed to have won Harry Potter's confidence. "Very well, then, Potter. Please inform me immediately if any sort of progress has been made."

"Course, Malfoy," he agreed instantly. "I'll share what I can. And you contact me immediately if you hear anything from Goyle or Zabini."

The blond nodded with a frown but said nothing else as Potter marched out of sight to the parlour in order to floo back to the Ministry. The Manor felt strangely empty without him.

 

Draco did not hear from Potter for four days. Four days in which he passed the time by wandering through the large house with a bottle of firewhisky clutched in one hand, alternating between sobbing hysterically and screaming in fury at the empty air. Whisky was not his normal drink of choice, but he relished the burn as he gulped large swallows between tears, awaiting something he was not yet sure of. Was he waiting for Potter to return? Pansy to tumble through his Floo? Greg to arrive on his doorstep with a bag of sweets? Maybe it was Blaise he was really waiting for, to show up in something tight, speak in a low voice, fit himself snugly behind Draco's body, kiss his neck in the one spot that always made him moan. Draco was just not sure anymore—the world felt skewed. All he knew was that he was waiting for  _something_.

Something arrived the morning of the fifth day after Potter had left the Manor, in the form of a familiar owl, the same one that used to deliver Blaise letters in the Great Hall.

Zamora had written back.

At the sight of the first outside contact in five days, Draco felt strangely anxious and beckoned to the bird with impatient gestures, who hovered just out of reach, staring down at him with a mistrusting expression.

"Fucking bloody stupid fucking bird," he muttered, considering hexing the blasted creature, but decided that may just prove to be counterproductive. Instead, he coaxed the animal down with large expensive owl treats, snatching the letter from its greedy leg as it gorged itself on the gourmet bird food.

Tearing the seal open, he quickly scanned the letter to growing disappointment. It had been long enough that he had forgotten just how laconic Zamora Zabini could be.

_Draco,_

_I am sorry to have to inform you that I do not know Blaise's current location, although I am certain he remains in England. I have spoken to him, however, to let him know that you are searching for him.  
If he is interested, he will seek you out._

_Z Zabini_

So she didn't even bother changing her last name with her marriages, anymore. Probably saves time between funerals, Draco decided. The letter itself was of little consequence—there were other individuals who would know which direction to point Draco in, he had simply been hoping to avoid them.

Folding the letter up neatly, he tucked it away into a pocket and headed into his bathroom to prepare himself to head out. An hour later he was showered and dressed, this time in fitted robes of burnished gold; slightly dramatic, perhaps, but they offset the silver of his eyes and added color to his platinum hair.

Heading to the nearest study, he sat and wrote several letters, all sent to the type of people he would rather not associate with, but if Zamora was going to be unreasonable, he was left with little choice.

Once the owls had flown out of sight and he was satisfied with his appearance, he strolled down the large drive of the Manor, choosing to take the longest route possible to the Ministry. Closing his eyes, he pictured his destination and felt the familiar uncomfortable squeeze that accompanied Apparition.

Eyelids snapping open, he glanced around in satisfaction at the familiar brick buildings of the narrow, deserted street he now stood on, immediately spying the large red box—the one that Draco smugly recognized as a  _telephone—_ across the street. Hurrying over to it, he slid open the door and squeezed inside the narrow space before twisting himself into an uncomfortable position in order to punch in the proper numbers on the square buttons of the strange device, answering the box's questions with his name and purpose for visit. A tiny  _chink_  sounded as the badge with his identification slid into a metal slot and the red box began to sink. As the light from the Atrium slowly began to rise along the length of the lift and the room came into gradual view, Draco felt a tense coil of nerves knotting through him at the thought of finding himself trapped in a building where not a single person would be pleased to see him.

The lift shuddered to a halt and the trepidation increased as he approached the security desk to present his wand. The wizard on duty did not even glance at him as he checked the wand offered. It wasn't until he read out the slip of parchment and reached Draco's name that he glanced up sharply, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Fortunately, he chose to remain silent, but Draco could feel the man's eyes on his back the entire walk across the Atrium to the lifts.

Fucking Merlin, though. Was Draco really there, in the Ministry, voluntarily? Was he really there, in the Ministry, voluntarily, to see  _Harry Potter_? No matter how many times he had thought about the man in the last few days—and it had been a significant amount—it still felt so strange to think of himself as being in contact with Harry sodding Potter. What would his younger self have said to him?  _Probably that he would want to live, and even Potter is a better option than being savagely torn to shreds by a sociopath._

But at the thought of Potter's power, his presence, his  _muscles_ , Draco was slightly worried about how much better of an option Potter was appearing to him. He could hardly afford to get carried away—it was  _Harry fucking Potter_ , for fuck's sake! Draco should be neither this nervous nor this excited to see the man. It had only been five days, after all.

Reaching level two, he stepped from the lifts along with several zooming memos and rounded the corner to the set of thick doors, behind which Auror Headquarters lay. Pushing one door open, he slipped inside and glanced around, wondering where Potter's office was. An annoyingly cheerful secretary pointed him in the right direction and he set off, shoulders stiff with determination.

But as Draco neared the room, his footsteps slowed as the pounding of his heart began to pick up, hammering painfully against his chest with every anxious step forward, beating faster and faster until he found himself standing before a heavy-looking door, upon which a square plaque read:

_Auror Potter  
Auror Weasley_

Squaring his jaw and willing his racing heart to slow, Draco rapped sharply on the door. A loud voice yelled to enter and he grasped the knob with a slightly sweaty hand, took a deep breath, and swung the door open. The first thing he noticed was brassy orange hair attached to a freckled head, sitting atop a body reclining casually in a chair with large feet affixed to the end of long legs that were propped up on a desk covered in parchment. Swinging his gaze around the room in interest, Draco was disappointed to see that Potter was nowhere in sight. For a moment, he foolishly thought about checking underneath both desks for the man, but immediately dismissed the idea as childish and idiotic. For one thing, one of the desks had a large ginger sitting in front of it.

The ginger in question glanced up and the corners of his lips twitched into a smirk. "Malfoy," the smirking lips spoke.

"Weasley," Draco nodded, stepping inside and allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

"You looking for Harry?" The question was innocent enough, but for one wild minute, Draco's palms broke out in a sweat at the thought that Weasley might possibly suspect his growing attraction to Potter. But the redhead kept speaking and the few seconds of panic passed. "He stepped out for a minute, but you can wait for him if you want." The words were accompanied by a gesture toward the desk at the other side of the room.

Eyeing the man cautiously, Draco crossed the small office to sink into the chair in front of the desk Weasley had pointed to, studying the wooden surface curiously. It was slightly neater than the disaster atop Weasley's own windswept desktop, but it was still covered in parchments and various colored folders, as well as hordes of gingers waving enthusiastically from metal frames lining the side of the desk closest to Draco. He scanned the photos he could see with pretended indifference, hoping to catch sight of something that might tell him more about Potter's personal life. A picture of him and a girlfriend, perhaps? Was he still dating the smallest Weasley, or had the weak sparks connecting them finally fizzled out, just as Draco had been certain they one day would? Draco had known years ago that the two Gryffindors would never last—a fact obvious to anybody with eyes.

Not that he paid attention to the prat back then, of course.

But if not Ginevra Weasley, then someone new, perhaps? More importantly, though, why should Draco  _care_? Obviously, the answer was that he didn't. He was simply curious, was all. Mother always did tell him he had a curious disposition.

Glancing up, he was startled to find Weasley—whom he had all but forgotten was there—staring at him and opening his mouth to speak. "So, is this about the case, or did you just miss him?"

The question threw Draco for a moment. Did he  _miss_  Potter? How could he? He barely knew the man. But then Weasley grinned and Draco knew he'd been joking. "Hardly," he sniffed. "I came to see what, if any, new information the infamous Golden Aurors had uncovered. It has been over a week, need I remind you."

"Even if you don't need to, I'm sure you will anyway," Weasley muttered. "Look, if you want to talk about the case, best to just sit tight and wait for Harry. He's in the lab talking to Caelix right now."

"Caelix?"  _Odd name_ , Draco decided.

"Tracer," Weasley explained, thumbing lazily through a folder, still seated in his reclined position with his feet up on the desk. "Works in magical evidence analysis."

"Ah, I believe Potter has mentioned him to me." That must have been whom Potter had been speaking about the other day, the one he had been so confident would solve everything.

"Yeah, I'm not surprised," Weasley grinned knowingly.

"Why not?" asked Draco before he could stop the words. What was that supposed to mean?

"Oh, let's just say he's always talking about Cae one way or another," the redhead answered, grin widening. Was he implying what Draco suspected he might be? Were Potter and this  _Kay_  involved? Was Potter  _gay_? Draco longed to ask Weasley a thousand questions, but he was not sure how to without making it appear as though his curiosity was more than just casual interest.

Which it was, of course. Casual, that is. What did Draco care who the speccy git involved himself with? But the curiosity was burning a hole in his esophagus and he opened his mouth to begin asking questions when the office door was suddenly flung wide and a familiar voice greeted the ginger oaf as a body stepped into the room, only to immediately pause.

"Malfoy," Potter exclaimed quietly, voice sounding surprised, as though seeing Draco sitting in front of his desk was the last thing he would ever expect to witness.

"Potter," he politely inclined his head, shifting in his creaky chair to face the man more fully.

"What are you doing here? Are you okay? Has something happened?" Potter's tone was sharp but his words were directed at Weasley, who shrugged.

"I dunno, if it did I figured he would have told me by now."

"Relax, Potter," Draco rolled his eyes. "Nothing bad has happened that I am aware of. I was near the area and simply stopped by to check on the progress of the case." He chose not to mention the fact that he had not actually been anywhere near the area at all and had instead needed desperately to get out of the Manor, but Potter might have seen it in his face because his countenance softened somewhat.

"Sure, Malfoy," he crossed the room swiftly and took the seat behind his desk. "But it'll have to be quick, I'm afraid," he apologized, pulling several folders toward him. "Which won't be hard, seeing as how we've not found much else out."

"You in a hurry, Harry?" Weasley interrupted in a curious voice.

"Er, yeah," he shot the other Auror a sheepish look. "Cae's waiting on me. He, er, asked if I wanted to grab lunch."

Draco started at the loud snort of amusement from the redhead. "Course he did, mate," he said easily. "Do you want me to fill Malfoy in so you can go with Cae? You're probably starving." The final statement was spoken in a sly, smirking tone, and Draco's growing suspicions about the situation mounted higher.

"Er, no, that's all right," Potter responded, eyes flicking to Draco before darting away again. "Malfoy came all the way here and I've been working more closely with Cae and everything, so I'm more up-to-date." The words were accompanied by a shrug and Draco was thrown by the casual gesture. Was it not as serious with this Cae as the blond had suspected? Or were they just so comfortable with each other in their relationship that working closely with the mysterious man was of a second nature to the brunet?

No, Draco decided. If the slightly embarrassed look he had given Weasley earlier was to be believed, Potter's prior words, if to be taken in the way Draco did not wish to take them, would have been accompanied by a similar response. He had spoken matter-of-factly about their working closely together without a hint of a blush.

Realizing he had been studying Potter intently and that both of the other men had noticed, Draco glanced away quickly, cursing the heat he could feel spreading through his entire face. "That's quite all right, Potter," he dismissed with a careless wave of his hand. "As I said, I was in the area and it was of no trouble for me to stop in. I assume Weasley to be at least adequate enough to read from a folder, and if he has any trouble, I am always here to assist. Don't allow me to keep you and this Cae from your lunch." Draco had almost said the word  _date_  but somehow managed to swallow it back at the last instant.

Green eyes stared into his for several long seconds. "Well, if you're both sure," Potter finally shrugged and stood, crossing to hand the folders to Weasley, who lowered his feet to the floor and straightened in his seat. "I won't be too long, Ron. Malfoy, I'll be round soon, yeah? I promise." And with that, the office door was swinging shut behind him and a silence fell over the room as Draco was once again left alone in the company of a ginger-haired Weasley.  _This is what happens when a single Gryffindor barges back into your life in response to the ghastly series of murders of your childhood friends_. Hopefully, this would be the last such instance in Draco's life.

"Do they do that often?" Draco blurted, breaking the silence and startling himself with the sudden question.

"Do what?" Weasley asked, looking down as he flipped through several folders.

Draco shrugged. "Go to lunch together."

"Yeah, every so often," Weasley answered casually. "It's not too unusual, though, Cae's a social guy."

"Does everyone around here love him?" Draco muttered, ignoring the sulk lacing his tone.

"Hard not to, once you meet him," Weasley grinned, finally glancing up. "Now, how about we focus on the reason you're here? Despite what you said about my inadequacies at everything not involving reading from folders, I do actually have work to do." The words that once might have been spoken so angrily were now uttered in a relaxed tone, as though Weasley was speaking to anybody and not the same blond he had felt such sharp abhorrence toward his entire childhood. Where was the Gryffindor loathing Draco had come to expect over the years? When had the entire world changed and where the hell had Draco been? He wasn't sure if he knew how to live in this new strange, alternate universe. What were the rules? What was expected of him? How did he survive here?

A colored folder was waved in front of his face and his attention snapped back to the office, to find Weasley staring at him oddly. "You all right, Malfoy?" What was with all this newfound Gryffindor concern? Draco was finding it to be far more off-putting than comforting.

"Of course, Weasley," he bristled. Showing weakness in front of Potter was one thing—that had been in a situation where Draco had been completely unable to fight the emotion that had slipped through the spreading cracks in his normally stoic façade—but exposing vulnerability in front of a  _Weasley_  was absolutely reprehensible, and he simply would not allow himself to sink that low. "Show me whatever is in those folders already, would you?"

Weasley wrinkled his nose in disgust and shook his head. "Trust me, Malfoy," he spoke in a low voice, "You do not want to see what is in these folders." A shudder shook Draco sharply, one Weasley of course noticed. "Sorry," he apologized, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "I'll tell you what I can, but it really isn't much."

Nodding, Draco gestured for him to do so.

"Well," the redhead began, thumbing back to the front of the folder in his grasp, "At the moment, the only thing we're actually certain of is the pattern. The victims so far have all been Slytherins from our year." An icy grief crept into Draco's lungs like fog stealing across a dark horizon. "There's no set order in the choice of victims, as far as we can tell. Cae is still sorting through everything and attempting to piece the magical residue back together in order to trace it, but the signatures are weird and broken, and he's having difficulty."

The fog in Draco's lungs slithered further through his body, spreading outward through his pale limbs, stealing his breath away and freezing him in place. They had  _no_ results? Not a single lead? Two of the Gryffindor Golden Trio were working on the case and they still had yet to come up with anything solid? The defeaters of the Dark fucking Lord could not track down whomever was responsible?

Well, if they were unable to, perhaps Draco should take the search into his own hands. He still had several contacts that may just be able to track down an answer, following trails the Aurors would never dare take due to their annoying morals and silly oaths to toe judicial boundaries. He would have retribution for Pansy, as well as the others. It was the least he could do for the ones that had stood by him, the ones that had called Draco a friend. It was rather sad, that it did not even take both hands to count on his fingers the number of friends he had ever had in his entire life.

"We're all trying, though, Malfoy, really," Weasley interrupted his thoughts, both tone and blue eyes earnest, and Draco couldn't help but believe the words, despite the underlie of pity in the man's deep voice. "I know it sounds bad, like we're stumbling around the clues blindly without any sort of idea, but we do know more that I just can't tell you about right now."

"Yes, I understand." Draco cleared his throat. It was irrelevant what they knew at this point; Draco was already planning to make arrangements of his own regarding clues and results.

"By the way," the redhead spoke abruptly, "have you had any luck finding Zabini?"

"Not at present, no," Draco admitted. "I contacted his mother and she wrote back informing me that she mentioned my asking about Blaise to him, but she is also unaware of his location. But I've written to several other contacts that may be able to point me in a direction." The fact that most of the contacts were born of an illegal nature was best left unsaid. The legality of Draco's dealings was of no concern to the Auror; he was there to protect Draco, not arrest and condemn him.

"Well, I s'pose that's all we can hope for now, then," Weasley shrugged. "In the meantime, we've got eyes on both you and Greengrass, so at least that's something."

"Something," Draco echoed before shaking himself and standing. "Right, well, I wanted to check the progress and I suppose I have. If there are any further developments, please inform me immediately."

"Sure, Malfoy," Weasley agreed, leaning back in his chair. "Same toward you, as far as Zabini goes."

Inclining his head in agreement, Draco exited the room, not drawing a breath until the heavy door had swung shut behind him. He exited the Ministry quickly, not wishing to linger. More than one person cast suspicious looks his way, sometimes expressing outright hostility, but he was able to make it across the Atrium and through the Floos before anything happened or anybody was able to corner him.

Once ensconced safely back in the Manor, he headed immediately for the study and began drafting a letter to a man he knew simply as Wisp—someone he admittedly did not know too much about. From what he was able to gather, Wisp was an ex-Hit Wizard, responsible for bringing in the more dangerous criminal element. After a few too many questions were asked about more than one criminal failing to be brought in alive, the man had been dismissed. Since then, he had chosen to operate outside of the law he once worked so diligently to uphold, trading his talents at tracking and finding for gold. Lucius had known him for a number of years and used him for a multitude of reasons in the past. The letter expressed a desire to meet, as well as an ample reward for doing so. He knew Wisp would be unable to resist the promise of gold.

Once it was completed and sealed, the letter was set aside. It would have to wait to be sent once Draco's owls had returned, hopefully with good news. He had not forgiven Blaise and oftentimes still hated him, but he would be damned if he wanted to see the man meet the same end as Pansy.

Draco was determined to see no more Slytherins dead.


	3. Despairing Cries

_Despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and night,_  
_The sad voice of Death-the call of my nearest lover, putting forth,_  
_alarmed, uncertain,_  
_This sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me,_  
_Come tell me where I am speeding-tell me my destination._

 _I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,_  
_I approach, hear, behold-the sad mouth, the look out of the eyes,_  
_your mute inquiry,_  
_Whither I go from the bed I now recline on, come tell me;_  
_Old age, alarmed, uncertain-A young woman's voice appealing to me,_  
_for comfort,_  
_A young man's voice, Shall I not escape?_

"Despairing Cries" _—_ Walt Whitman

 

* * *

 

"We're no closer to solving this than we were four months ago!" Harry cried in frustration, shoving the navy folder away from himself in disgust.

"We'll get there, Harry," his partner said evenly. "These things take time, it's a difficult case."

Gritting his teeth, Harry rubbed his temples furiously. "There has to be something else we can be doing, Ron.  _Anything_  else."

"Not unless you can think of anything," Ron shrugged. "We've gone over this case from every angle. All we can do at the moment is wait for the results from the lab to keep coming in so we can continue piecing everything together."

"Yeah," Harry replied glumly. He needed to  _do_ something, interrogate somebody, get names, make connections, track somebody, anybody, down. "What if I go talk to the three witnesses again who saw Davis grabbed? Or the two that saw Nott get taken? Maybe they've remembered something new, some detail we could use."

"Mate, is this about Malfoy?" Ron asked carefully.

The question made Harry pause. "What do you mean?" What did Malfoy have to do with wanting to stop a murderer?

"Well, ever since he stopped by three days ago, you've been in this sort of manic frenzy to solve everything."

A manic frenzy? What was Ron talking about? He hadn't been acting any differently from before; he had always wanted this case figured out. Especially before any harm came to anybody else.

"I just want this solved," Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"Yeah, so do I," Ron agreed heavily, eyes flicking to a violet folder atop his desk before glancing away. "It's…different, you know? Trying to solve the murders of people we knew, I mean. Even if we didn't like each other when we were younger."

"God, the look on his face when I told him she was dead…" Harry muttered, shutting his eyes and running his hands through his hair. The memory of Malfoy's reaction that first day at the Manor still haunted him. He needed something to give the blond—a name, a direction, a motive,  _something_.

"Malfoy showing emotion," Ron shook his head. "Sounds…strange. I'm not sure I can picture it," he admitted, face twisted with what was presumably the effort to do so.

"I'm not sure I can stop picturing it," Harry responded dryly.

Ron appeared sympathetic. "I don't envy you being the one who had to tell him most of his friends have been murdered. I'm surprised you made it out without being hexed, in all honesty."

"Yeah, me, too," Harry muttered. As his eyes scanned the folders again, he groaned and dropped them to the desk. "Right," he decided, climbing to his feet. "I'm going to go check on Cae's progress."

"Course you will, Harry," Ron smirked. "The 'progress', right."

Shaking his head, he shot the other man a rude hand gesture. "It's work-related, for Christ's sake, Ron."

"Right, right, course,  _work_ ," the freckled smirk grew more pronounced. "Go get answers for us, then."

"Did you want to come?" Harry asked, pointedly ignoring Ron's sly tone.

"No, can't," Ron answered, cracking his neck. "I've got to get to St. Mungo's to talk to a few Healers about the Parish case."

"Oh, right." Harry had completely forgotten about the Parish case. The Parishes were a couple living just outside of Chelsea that had experienced two recent break-in's, the latter of which had resulted in the husband's confrontation with one of the burglars, ending in a trip to St. Mungo's, as well as the evasion of the crooks. As far as Harry knew the man would be all right, but he had been in hospital for several days now.

"Did you want me to go with you?" he asked guiltily. What was wrong with Harry, they were supposed to be partners for Merlin's sake.

"Nah, it's all right." Ron waved him off. "I've got it covered; it doesn't need both of us."

"Okay, let me know how it goes, I s'pose," Harry said, running one hand through his hair.

"Tell Cae I say hi," he called to Harry's back as the brunet crossed the room and pulled open the heavy door. Striding down the hallway, he paused outside the lab and knocked, but heard no answer. Rapping his knuckles harder, he waited, but still no response. Was Caelix out? Inspecting a crime scene, perhaps?

Deciding to open the door and check, Harry stuck his head in to be assaulted with a sudden cacophony, making him jump and swear loudly, the sound of which was swallowed in the bellow of frenzied music suddenly defeaning him. The shrill screech of angry guitars blared loudly around the room, accompanied by frantic drumming and manic singing. A flash of purple caught his attention out of the corner of one eye and he turned to see a familiar thin figure bending over the table, back turned to Harry.

Stepping inside, the brunet shut the door and shook his head fondly at the bleached head bobbing in time to the music.

Another flash, this time deep maroon, haloed the man. Harry waited until the light had faded and Caelix straightened before stepping forward and tapping the other man on one narrow shoulder. The music instantly shut off as Caelix whirled around, losing his balance and nearly falling over. Harry reached out automatically to steady him just as the other man's hands shot out to latch onto Harry's shoulders. They stared at each other in surprise for a moment before Caelix smiled and relaxed.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Harry, are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?" The words were spoken softly and Harry was unsure of how to respond.

"Erm, sorry," he apologized. Neither man had dropped their hold on the other, something Harry had not noticed until that moment. Snatching his hands away, he continued speaking. "I knocked for a bit, but I guess you couldn't hear me through your silencing charms."

Caelix was much slower about removing his hands from Harry's shoulders, but he gradually dropped them to place his palms lightly on the table behind him, leaning back against it and surveying the Auror with amusement. "Fret not, P, I promise I'll live. You just surprised me, is all."

"Well don't be so easy to sneak up on, then, C," Harry suggested mockingly.

"Are you saying I have to watch my back for you?" Cae arched a dark eyebrow, lips twitching.

Harry shrugged. "If it'll keep you from having heart attacks, then sure."

"Why, Harry Potter, I had no idea you cared so much," said Caelix coyly.

Blushing slightly and deciding to change the subject, Harry gestured toward the table. "Did you find anything new?"

The strange gleam in Caelix's turquoise eyes faded as he turned to survey his work. "Well, sort of," he hesitated. "I won't lie to you, though, it's not a whole fucking lot."

"Honestly, Cae, at this point I'll take anything," Harry assured.

For a moment, Caelix looked as if he wanted to say something, but shook his head and sighed. "Well, for the past few days I've been working on stitching the magical strands back together, to see exactly what sort of spells and levels of power we're dealing with, if it's one or multiple attackers, if it's a signature I can trace, things like that." As he spoke, Harry nodded. "But everything about the residue left behind at these particular crime scenes is…strange."

"Strange how?" Harry wondered, leaning closer to the table. They already knew that the magic found had been different from the usual sort of signature, but to hear it described like that from Cae, in that tone of voice, gave Harry a deep sense of unease.

"Strange as in I'm not quite sure what to make of it," Caelix confessed, drumming his long fingers against the table. "The strands are scattered and broken, jagged, and not matching up with each other. None of the magic really seems to fit together, as if it's from multiple sources, but the way the crimes were executed suggests it was a very small number of people, if even more than one. It's turning out to be quite the fucking conundrum, P."

"So you won't be able to piece it all together, then?" the Auror asked, studying Caelix's face. The man looked exhausted, as though he was running solely on caffeine and willpower. Harry knew that Caelix had a tendency to lose himself in his work, oftentimes forgetting to take breaks or eat. There had even been several occasions when Harry had found him sleeping in the lab early in the morning, on something transfigured into a cot. "Cae, how much sleep did you get last night?" If Cae was working himself to death, forgetting to eat or sleep, then Harry would have to start insisting he did both, even if he had to force food into the other man's hands or drag him bodily from the lab.

"Enough," was the short reply.

"Cae…" Harry began sternly, but his concern was waved off.

"I'm fine, Harry, I promise." Caelix placed one hand over his own heart in a gesture of sincerity. "On my honor as a natural blond, I assure you I am not working myself too hard."

"Your hair is fucking bleached, you ponce," Harry laughed.

"Well, yes," the other man shrugged. "Your point?"

"Just show me what you got," Harry shook his head in amusement.

"Why, Harry Potter, is that a pick-up line?" asked Caelix, fluttering his eyelashes and flashing a flirtatious smile.

"More like a work-related line," the brunet grinned. "Come on, I want to hear more about what you were talking about."

"As you wish," Caelix turned to face the table. "We can return to discussing our torrid love affair in a moment."

"Right," Harry rolled his eyes. Love affair. Sure.

"So, then," Caelix exclaimed. "Back to the magic! Now, contrary to your apparent lack of faith in my brilliant self, I  _have_  been able to piece a few strands back together, giving us a broader view of the nature of the attacks." As he paused to take a breath, Harry considered arguing with him about having more faith in the man than that, but decided to let it go as Caelix continued speaking. "But the fact that I'm unable to stitch together all of it does tell us at least something."

"And what is that?" Harry wondered, finding himself leaning in closer as Caelix did the same.

"Well, that we're dealing with magic from multiple sources, and that the way it was cast was in a way unnatural to it. Whatever conduit they used—which was definitely not a wand, by the way—it operates in such a way that the magic was damaged before it was ever even unleashed. I've never seen anything like this before. Whatever this is, Harry, it's Dark."

The words left Harry with a peculiar feeling of calm and familiarity. Of course it was Dark. Everything about Harry's life had been Dark, it made sense the pattern would follow him through his career—a career he could admit to himself was maybe not ideal for avoiding Dark situations. "Yeah, I thought my life was lacking in pure evil, lately," he responded wryly.

"And the universe decided to deliver," Caelix chuckled. "Your misfortune has doomed us all, P."

"Kingsley knew the risks when he hired me," Harry countered affably. "So can you show me what you mean by the strands being jagged?"

"Yeah, of course," Cae sounded surprised, as though not expecting Harry to take any interest in the actual work behind the results. "But since I care about you and your safety," his eyes flicked up and down the length of Harry's body, "do me a favor and step back a bit, yeah?"

Complying quickly, Harry backed up several paces and raised an eyebrow.

Shaking his head with a smile, Caelix turned to face the table and raised a thin wand to mutter a few words, passing it over the front of his body as he spoke. Harry couldn't see any spell or notice a difference, but Caelix appeared satisfied. "It might be sort of difficult to notice at first," he spoke quietly, peering at a large patch of blank table. "But if you look closely enough you should be able to see it."

Turning his attention to the table as well and gazing at it intently, Harry was surprised to see that it was not actually empty. There was a strange transparent pall floating just above the surface, like the shimmer caused by waves of heat rising from a hot road in the dead of summer. The wand in Cae's hand drifted over it, weaving an intricate pattern as he began to sing an incantation, low words that Harry did not recognize or understand. A strange flickering began as his voice rose and fell, the wand flowing in ever tightening maneuvers until a strange yellow glow slowly appeared where the shimmer had been.

Gesturing silently, Caelix beckoned Harry closer but stopped him with a raised palm after only two steps. "Do you see it, Harry?" he breathed. "The patterns? Look closely."

Remaining in his position but craning his neck to peer closer, Harry studied the glow. At first, he could see nothing, just a lemon-colored haze swirling beneath Caelix's never-ceasing wand movements. But Caelix crooned more strange words and Harry began noticing thin cracks, delicate and spidery, extending throughout the colored mist, like thin ice atop a frozen lake splintering when too much weight is put upon it. The cracks were extensive and fragile-looking, spreading out in jagged patterns.

"I see," Harry murmured, eyes attempting to follow the fractures.

At his words, Caelix lowered his voice even further, slowing the movements of his wrist until the glow had faded and the space became a translucent shimmer once more. "And that's just one example," Caelix spoke in a normal volume, gesturing Harry to step in close again. "There are strands I'm sorting through that have entire gaping holes in them, as if the magic had been gouged out by something."

"Gouged? Can something  _do_  that?" The idea of magic being ripped out and torn violently apart like that was not a thought Harry liked.

Cae shrugged. "Anything is possible, I'm afraid."

"Christ, doesn't this just take the award for most fucked-up case ever," Harry muttered.

"An unfortunate record we hope to never see beaten," the other man added.

With a grunt of agreement, Harry bent toward the table to study the haze again. This case was turning out far more complex than anybody had originally thought. The numerous acts of vengeance or "vigilante" work that had popped up after the war were usually not too difficult to solve. To many a pub goer, it was nearly a bragging right in the immediate aftermath of the war to have cornered a Death Eater—recognized or rumored, it didn't really matter—and teach them a lesson, or make them pay for lost family members, or sometimes just to alleviate the boredom of whoever had cornered them.

But this was different. This was calculated, planned. The attackers had obviously known the schedules and whereabouts of the victims. And the murders themselves were…merciless. It was the brutality of the crimes that suggested a personal connection to the victims. Something with that frightening amount of rage and loathing had to stem from an intimate acquaintance, whatever that may have been. Friend, family member, ex-lover, Harry wasn't sure, but the severity of the violence suggested some sort of relationship with the victims that exceeded casual, Parkinson's most of all. If she hadn't fought back, he would know with certainty if the violence had escalated due to a more personal association. At that point, Harry simply did not have enough clues to do much more than speculate. He still had no information for Malfoy.

The killer was still out there, still plotting, maybe growing angrier and more powerful by the day. Perhaps the rage was building with every victim and Pansy had simply caught the brunt of the wrath. Maybe that was the real reason behind the excessive violence. Perhaps the attacker had grown bored with the kill after destroying the first three victims in the same manner.

The thought made Harry want to grit his teeth. It was all nothing but more rows to explore in the endless fucked-up maze that the case was unfolding into. "Well, thanks, Cae," he sighed.

"Is that a thanks as in 'thanks for trying, mate, but you're utterly useless'?" Harry opened his mouth furiously to argue, but the other man continued. "Or is it a thanks as in 'thanks for being so brilliant, even if you haven't figured everything out yet, also thank you for being so charming and devilishly attractive'?"

"Charming and devilishly attractive?" Harry snorted. God love Caelix, the man could always make him laugh. "Not really sure if those are the adjectives I would use to describe you." If Harry thought about it, he wasn't sure how he would describe Caelix. Brilliant would probably be the first characterization.

"Fucking shame, that," Cae responded lightly, looking Harry directly in the eye. "Looks like we use differing adjectives in regards to each other then."

What was that supposed to mean? Was he saying he used the words  _charming_ and  _attractive_  to describe Harry? Why? Harry was neither. Just ask his failed relationship or the any of the handful of witches he had dated in Ginny's wake. Obviously, Caelix was joking, not flirting, in an attempt to fluster the Auror. And Harry could hardly give him the satisfaction of being embarrassed.

"Right, Cae," he grinned ruefully and shook his head, dismissing the words. "Is there anything else about any of this you can tell me?" The words were accompanied by a gesture in the general area of the table.

For a moment it looked as though Caelix wouldn't answer. A look of frustration crossed his face and he stared, unblinking, at Harry for several long seconds before sighing harshly and smiling back. "'Fraid fucking not, P. You're the most up-to-date Auror in employment at the moment."

"It's nice to be number one in something," the brunet quipped, attempting to force from his mind the thought that he was the most up-to-date Auror and yet still had no idea which direction to turn in.

"Yes, because you've clearly never known that a day in your life," responded Caelix sarcastically. "Remind me again, who was better at killing Voldemort than you?"

At the question, Harry took a second, as he always did when that name was uttered, to appreciate the fact that there was somebody else in the world willing to say the name. Voldemort had been dead for three years, for Merlin's sake, and yet some people acted as if he was still listening in on everything like a venomous shroud, still creeping around their thoughts and conversations like cancerous black smoke.

"Dumbledore, my mother, my friends," Harry began rattling, ticking off fingers with every name. "Snape."

"Ah yes, the mysterious Severus Snape," Caelix sighed. "I do so wish I had met the man, from what I've heard from you and Ronald. Makes me wish I had gone to Hogwarts." His voice turned wistful.

"I would have loved to see what the two of you made of each other," Harry snickered, already picturing the meeting between Snape—in his dramatically sweeping robes, framed by greasy hair and the thin veneer of disgust for his surroundings that had practically clothed him—being introduced to Caelix, with his multicolored piercings and magenta-tipped bleached hair, Muggle clothing and flirtatious sarcasm—not to mention the worn-out trainers and loud spastic music he tended to blast while working. But despite the numerous—not to mention obvious—differences between the two men, Harry couldn't help but feel as if the two would have come to a mutual respect for one another, at least as far as the intellect of both of them was concerned.  _They could have bonded over their brilliance_ , Harry thought wryly.

Long past were the days he had felt any animosity toward the memory of the deceased Potions master. Now those same memories that had once inspired burning hatred were steeped in admiration, gratitude, and an ever-deepening respect. Even though it had been quite a while since he had thought about Snape, he was surprised that he found himself missing the man.

Stranger things had happened, he decided, shrugging it off for now.

"You'll have to tell me more about him," said Cae softly, turquoise eyes studying Harry's face intently.

Fighting back both a blush from the scrutiny of the stare and a shudder that always accompanied the heavy recollections of Severus Snape, Harry fidgeted slightly before smiling. "Well, I can tell you right now that he would have had an opinion about your hair." With his words, he lifted a hand and flicked at the magenta tips covering one pale cheek.

"Ah, so not a fan of style, then," Caelix spoke seriously, but the corners of his lips twitched.

"No," Harry chuckled. "More like a fan of my constant torment and public humiliation." The statement might be slightly overdramatized, but it was true enough.

"You mean he would go all like 'student and professor' on you? With discipline and everything? Sounds like a right sexy bastard," Cae smirked. "Was he a bit sexy, Harry? Tell me the truth now."

Harry blanched. " _Snape_?" The words  _Snape_  and  _sexy_  were words that, when used in the same sentence, refused to make sense to Harry's goggled brain.

"From what I've heard," Cae shrugged, smirking wider, "he had those billowing black robes and long hair and that whole dark, brooding, misanthropic outlook. In my mind, it's all pretty fucking hot." He spoke the words matter-of-factly, as though what he was saying was not currently traumatizing Harry. The brunet would be scarred, he just knew it, beyond the help of any Mind Healer, if this conversation was allowed to continue.

"All right, we need to talk about something else," he said desperately. He had no desire to discuss the man that had been in love with his mother—pining after her his entire bloody life, for Christ's sake—and whether or not that same man had been  _sexy_.

Laughing, Caelix tipped his head to the side to peer at Harry. "Only because you look as if you're about to fucking faint and I don't need anyone bursting in here and accusing me of killing Harry Potter." He held his hands up in a gesture of self-defense. "Even though all I did was suggest his old professor might be a  _bit_  of a sexy bastard."

Groaning, Harry shook his head frantically, as though he could forever shake from his brain the memory of hearing Caelix describe Snape as sexy  _yet again_. "I will never tell you another story about my adolescence ever again, Caelix, I swear to God," he threatened, fixing him with a stern look.

"You know, Harry, that hurts," Caelix placed a hand over his heart and pretended an affronted look. "I thought you told me all of those lovely stories based off of friendship and mutual trust, not as some sort of reward system to punish bad behavior. That's just straight fucked up, that is. I expected better from you."

At the offended look on the other man's face, Harry laughed. "I've always told everyone that the Harry Potter the  _Prophet_  depicts isn't the real me."

The corners of Caelix's lips quirked up as he surveyed the Auror, looking him over from head to toe. "Oh, I think I have a fairly fucking good insight into the real Harry Potter."

Not quite sure what to make of either the words that had been spoken or the stare currently being sent him, Harry chuckled lightly. "Course you do, Cae," he said. "We've worked together for over two years now." They had met a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts, when he and Ron and several others officially became Aurors after being rushed through an abridged training. The world was in disarray, Dark wizards had been roaming freely, the Ministry was up in confusion, and Aurors had been in short supply. Kingsley had taken over as Minister and quickly began righting the harm that Voldemort had managed to accomplish within the Ministry, but opposition seemed to hound him from every corner for some time.

The new Aurors had immediately been thrown out into the field, sometimes working with experienced wands, other times left on their own. But Harry had preferred it that way, just him and Ron, relying on each other the way they had so often in the past. They worked extremely well together as partners, after a decade of close familiarity. They had been brothers for years.

In the figurative sense, of course, since Harry and Ginny had fortunately chosen not to give into the Wizarding World's—mostly Molly Weasley's—demands to see their Saviour happily married with several heroic children already on the way, presumably named after Harry's parents or else Dumbledore, perhaps. Ron had even once joked about Harry naming one of his kids after Snape.

But that had not been a life that Harry had wanted for himself. After the war, he and Ginny had picked right back up where they had left off in their relationship, and for a time it was nice, peaceful, even. But after nearly a year and a half, Harry knew it wasn't working. They sat down together one day and Ginny confessed that she had recently earned a spot as a Chaser on the Caerphilly Catapults, a team located far enough away that she decided moving would be much easier. They had ended things well enough, still keeping in touch occasionally and making sure to see each other when she passed through.

Last Harry had heard, she was currently dating some other professional Quidditch player, some bloke whose name he could not remember, from one of the Irish leagues. He wished her well with it and had told her so sincerely, earning a rib-crushing hug from her in response.

Blinking rapidly, he surfaced from his thoughts of the past at the feel of a rhythmic tapping against his forehead. "Harry? Hulloooo?" a familiar voice called softly and Harry focused on the turquoise eyes he had been speaking to before he had spaced out.

"Sorry, Cae," he apologized, shaking his head lightly. "Just thinking about the last two years, you know?"

"Ah yes," Caelix grinned. "Our illustrious beginning. I was so naïve and easily corrupted." He sighed dramatically and Harry swatted at his chest.

"Please," he scoffed. "As if  _I_ was the one corrupting  _you_."

"Well, that's the way I remember it," Cae sniffed theatrically, causing Harry to roll his eyes.

"Right, well, you have a good time misremembering the past, then," he said, lips twitching as he took a step back, "and I'm going to get back to work now." He turned and crossed the room but paused with his hand on the knob. "And I won't be a fucking stranger, Cae," he spoke before the other man could get the words out. Caelix always ended their conversations the same way.

As he opened the door and stepped into the hall, he heard Caelix call out, "See that you fucking aren't," before the door swung shut and Harry was striding back to his office. Once inside, he noticed instantly that Ron was gone, presumably at St. Mungo's. He walked to his desk and sank into his chair before noticing a pale green envelope sitting atop a small stack of files, with a torn piece of parchment covered in Ron's untidy scrawl lying half across it.

_Mate,_

_This came for you right after you left. I figure he wouldn't write if it wasn't important. Send me a Patronus if you need backup._

Frowning, Harry picked up the envelope and opened it quickly, slipping the small square of parchment loose. It was from Malfoy.

_Potter,_

_I have received information regarding Blaise. I would also appreciate an update on the case. It's been three fucking days already, you wanker. Floo through immediately, Pibby knows to expect you._

_DM_

Chuckling to himself, Harry stood and twisted the kinks from his back, tucking the letter away carefully before heading for the Floos and Malfoy Manor.

 

oOo

 

Draco tightened the cloak around himself and strode faster, wanting to get out of the dusky autumn chill sweeping the familiar cobblestones and seeping through the layers of fabric covering him. Finally spotting the pub he was headed toward, he quickened his pace, pulling open the door and entering with a small sigh of relief. The Den of the Lion was warm and crowded, loud and packed, exactly the way Draco knew it would be. It was the sole reason he had chosen the place—even despite the ridiculous name—the noise and usual throng making it much harder to overhear conversations or notice anything out of the ordinary. That had been one of the earlier lessons Draco's father had imparted, explaining the finer points of subtlety to him and educating him in ways to get away with anything right out in the open.

Locating an empty table, he sat and tugged apart the fastenings of his cloak, ordering two glasses of lager from the smiling waitress. The drinks arrived sooner than he expected and he took the opportunity to spell the alcohol from his beverage while leaving it the same color and general amount, a rather tricky spell that he had found to be useful on more than one occasion. He had no intention of getting drunk tonight.

Wisp, however, would expect him to drink, along with the expectation that a drink would be waiting for him when he arrived, which could be at any moment.

At the thought, he took a sip, grimacing slightly, and flicked his eyes around the room, despite the fact that he knew it to be useless. Wisp always arrived in disguise, never making himself known before he felt ready. Draco still had no idea what the man actually looked like, only knowing that he was excellent at what he did and that he more than understood the concept of secrecy.

A figure suddenly dropped heavily into the chair across from him, startling Draco. The legs of the chair scraped roughly against the floor as he settled close to the table and pinned Draco with a steely stare. The last time Draco had seen him, he had been disguised as a middle-aged balding man, with large ears and slightly droopy eyes, as well as a rounded gut and a soft wheeze always present in his voice.

The man seated across from him, however, was very different. He appeared to be only a few years older than Draco, with chocolate-colored hair and the scruffy beginnings of a beard. His eyes were hazel and nearly covered by the shaggy brown hair he was constantly shaking from his eyes, as though not quite used to the length. The man was ruggedly good-looking and for a moment Draco was surprised, but as he looked around, he realized that Wisp blended in perfectly with the other pub goers, most of whom were right around Draco's age.

The tip of a wand protruding from his sleeve caught Draco's eye and he stiffened automatically, but the next second relaxed as he realized it was being directed at the glass of lager before the other man. Apparently satisfied that the beverage was not tampered with, he took a large gulp and grinned widely.

"Draco Malfoy," he spoke in a cool voice, but there was a hint of intrigue behind the words. Draco opened his mouth to respond, but Wisp held up a hand as he cast a muffled silencing spell. "Now tell me what I'm doing here."

"I have a job for you that I believe you will find interesting," Draco answered smoothly, taking another sip of his drink.

"Is that so?" the other man raised a thick eyebrow. "And what makes you so sure of that?"

Grinning wickedly, Draco slid a heavy velvet bag across the table. The contents clinked gently as Wisp picked it up and tested the weight. "The monetary compensation should be of interest enough," Draco said lightly.

"And this is the amount that's supposed to interest me?" asked Wisp wryly.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Draco spoke. "Of course not. The rest, however, is dependent upon results."

"And what exactly would the job be?" The tone was bored and indifferent, sounding as though he didn't care either way, but Draco crowed inwardly, knowing with certainty that Wisp would accept.

He took a sip before responding, leaning in closer to look the man right in the eye. "There have been a recent string of murders," he began, fighting to remain above the maudlin waves threatening to pull him under and overwhelm him, but the next second he had regained control and was able to finish speaking. This was for Pansy and the others, after all. "The Aurors so far have come up with nothing in the way of results. I would have you prove better than the Ministry's finest."

The words were tossed out casually, but there was a definite challenge in them that Wisp would be unable to resist. Ever since being dismissed from the Ministry, he took savage pleasure in beating them to the answer, and especially in messing up their investigations. Draco did not want him getting in the way of Potter, certainly not crossing the man, but he needed results—results that Potter had so far been unable to provide.

"How many murders?" Wisp murmured, tracing the rim of his glass with one short index finger, appearing contemplative.

"Four so far," Draco said. "But following the pattern, there are four others still on the list."

"And what sort of interest is this to you?" Wisp wondered, taking several gulps of his drink.

"I think that will become clear upon accepting the job," Draco said dryly. Even though he felt certain that the man would accept, there was always the possibility of being turned down. But those fears turned out to be unnecessary.

Bouncing the velvet sack in one palm for a moment, Wisp grinned widely at Draco and tucked it into a pocket with a nod. "What sort of information do you have for me, then?" he asked, finishing the rest of his lager and motioning to the waitress for another. They halted their meeting for several minutes until the second drink had arrived.

Once the waitress had smiled and walked away, Draco slipped a hand into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a tiny box, inside which were copies of the same colored folders he had seen covering Potter's and Weasley's desks the other day, all shrunk enough to fit in a single palm-sized container. His father had always had people throughout the Ministry in his pocket, many of whom Draco still made use of. His contact in the records room had proven to be invaluable, especially in this instance.

When he had first received the folders, he had immediately sat and started looking through them, hoping to find answers or closure or  _something_ , but after less than a minute of scanning the information regarding Theo's attack, he had slammed the folder shut with a pounding heart and bile rising in his throat, shoving it away from himself in disgust. As he drew in deep shuddering breaths, he knew there would be no way he would be able to look at the details of Pansy's murder and had been insanely appreciative toward Potter for not disclosing any specifics that first day.

Placing the box on the table, he slid it across the wooden surface toward Wisp, who picked it up curiously. "Inside is all of the information that the Ministry currently has on the investigation, as well as their dismal lack of results. I trust you to be able to provide me with more." Cocking one eyebrow, he watched as Wisp snorted and placed the box into the same pocket as the Galleons.

"Of course," he grunted, sounding insulted. "Those Ministry fucks wouldn't know how to find their own arses if the clues spelled out where to look." Pausing, he fixed Draco with a serious stare. "I expect the second payment before any information is given, as well as a hefty bonus if I am the one to be apprehending those found guilty, as well as an even larger one if you wish them delivered to you alive."

An ice-cold smile slipped across Draco's face, showing just the barest hint of teeth. Wisp raised one eyebrow and leaned back in his seat, watching the blond warily.

"That is exactly what I wish," Draco said in a low, soft voice. "Find them for me. Money is no object."

Nodding, Wisp downed the rest of his drink and climbed to his feet. "I'll be in contact as soon as I have anything." And with that he was gone, having somehow slipped through the crowd seemingly without disturbance or notice.

Placing a handful of Sickles on the table, Draco exited as well.

 

The next morning found him seated at the table in his bedroom, sipping tea and leafing through the paper, but his attention kept drifting and he could not focus on the words. He caught himself scanning the skies every so often, berating himself for expecting results so quickly. Wisp was the best at what he did, but he was still only human and needed time. And Draco could afford to be patient—it would only make it all the sweeter when the moment of vengeance arrived.

As he picked moodily at the breakfast Pibby had brought him, the house-elf in question popped into the room suddenly, along with a small nondescript brown owl, twittering madly and darting about. "Master Draco is having an owl arrive for him, sir," he squeaked, pointing at the bird swooping excitedly about the room.

"It appears I do, Pibby," he said mildly, but the force of his heart was beating a bruise onto the inside of his chest as he crossed the room to coax the owl down with treats. Was it from Wisp, offering information? Was it from Potter, saying he had found something new? Maybe it was from Greg, finally returning the letter Draco had sent a week ago?

His fingers trembled slightly as he untied the letter from the distracted bird's leg and slit the seal open with a spell. Pulling the letter out, he gasped sharply at the familiar handwriting, although the sender really should not have been that much of a surprise. As he scanned the letter, his eyes narrowed further and further before finally tossing the parchment aside, navy ink facing up.

_Draco,_

_I've heard from several sources (my mother included), that you have been looking for me. I find myself rather pleasantly surprised, considering how we left things the last time we saw each other. If you've changed your mind and are ready to discuss everything with me in a calm manner, I shall be more than happy to accommodate that wish. I'm honestly not sure what other reason you would have for seeking me out. Either way, you've managed to catch my curiosity. Send your answer with this same owl, he knows how to find me. I look forward to hearing from you._

_Yours,_

_Blaise_

Gritting his teeth, Draco began pacing the room. Every word that had been written had been read to him in his mind in Blaise's enunciated drawl, dripping with his usual level of arrogance. It had been the exact reason he had been so loath to attempt to contact the smug bastard. Of course he would take any attempt Draco made to contact him as an apology toward desired reconciliation. Draco couldn't even try to save the fucker's life without him misunderstanding the intentions behind it.

"Pibby!" he called sharply. The elf cracked into view before Draco had even finished saying his name. "Fetch me a quill and some parchment," he ordered.

It was finally time to write Potter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this chapter ended up being kinda short. My bad. But I promise lots of Harry/Draco interaction awaits you in the next update!
> 
> Til next time, lovers!
> 
> p.s. your reviews make my heart feel all warm and sunshiny :)


	4. Millions of the Mouthless Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for warnings—this is where the warnings regarding excessive poetry start to become necessary

_When you see millions of the mouthless dead  
__Across your dreams in pale battalions go,  
__Say not soft things as other men have said,  
__That you'll remember. For you need not so.  
__Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know  
__It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?  
__Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.  
__Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.  
__Say only this, "They are dead." Then add thereto,  
_ " _Yet many a better one has died before."  
__Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you  
__Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,  
__It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.  
__Great death has made all his for evermore._

"When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead" _—_ Charles Hamilton Sorley

 

* * *

 

"Mister Harry Potter is here to be seeing Master Draco, sir," Pibby announced in his high-pitched voice, appearing suddenly in front of the fireplace in Draco's favorite room of the first-floor library, where he was seated comfortably in an armchair, back leaning against one armrest and legs slung over the other, nose buried in a collection of Lord Byron's poetry. His poems had never failed to relax Draco before, and after Blaise's earlier letter and Potter's hopefully impending visit, he had needed a distraction but did not actually expect literature to work.

After the first poem, however, he found his stress melting from his mind and he soon lost himself in the words. It was with a distracted wave that Draco commanded Pibby to show Potter in, knowing the walk from the front door to the library would take long enough for him to read several more poems.

As he read the words, he lost track of time, forgetting somehow that Potter was in his house, on his way to the library. A quiet cough startled him and his eyes shot up to find Potter standing several yards away, clad in his delightful crimson robes and staring at Draco curiously.

"Malfoy…are you reading  _poetry_?" the brunet asked incredulously. "Is that… _Lord Byron_? Are you reading  _Muggle poetry_?" His voice was pure disbelief, sounding as if he was about to pinch himself at any moment to check if he was dreaming, a reaction that left Draco with the strange urge to giggle.

"Of course, Potter," he responded smoothly, slipping a marker between the pages he was on and setting the book aside. "Beauty is beauty, no matter the source." His gaze flicked over Potter's body from head to toe as he spoke.

Green eyes goggled at him as if he was speaking another language or had somehow grown extra limbs that were waving freely about. The silence stretched as Potter continued to stare at the blond in quiet astonishment. "I honestly don't even know how to respond to any of that," he finally said, appearing slightly lost. The expression appeared out of place on the man's features and was so endearing and adorable that Draco wanted nothing more than to stroke the skin of his face gently and kiss the confused lines between his eyes smooth.

With an internal growl, he shook the desire from his mind. This was  _Potter_ , for fuck's sake. The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Bloody-Prat-To-Draco. He just had to keep reminding himself of that. And Potter was there on  _business_ , anyway. Draco was simply another aspect of the job to him.

Deciding to put Potter from his awkward misery, Draco gestured at him to sit down. "It's a good thing you don't need to respond to any of it, then, isn't it?" he said lightly as Potter took the seat nearest him and glanced around as if expecting to find more of the unexpected.

Swallowing the same strange urge to giggle from earlier, Draco tilted his head back against the armrest and stared at Potter as the man continued peering around himself in interest. He fidgeted slightly, looking restless like he was itching to scan the book titles for more Muggle authors.

"Would you like a drink, Potter?" The sudden question startled them both, Potter's head whipping around to stare at him with wide eyes. Draco wanted to huff. Honestly, it was as if the man had been expecting to be met with curses and anger as opposed to Muggle literature and the offer of a beverage. Had he never had company over? Did he not know the proper way to treat guests? Did he just not bother adhering to social niceties? Maybe Muggles did things differently and the ones that had raised him had damaged him somehow; maybe his upbringing had left him locked in a permanently barbaric state. Perhaps since he was the Chosen One he was not expected to uphold any sort of manners or proper etiquette.

Either way, this assumed view he had of Draco as a terrible host made the corners of the blond's lips turn down in displeasure. His parents had been constantly entertaining swarms of important people in the past; Draco had learned at a young age how to accommodate—and manipulate—a guest.

"Is that a no or are you just having particular difficulty forming words this morning?" Draco drawled, impatience finally winning out over his desire to prove himself an excellent host. "Questions can be ever so difficult, can't they, Potter?"

That seemed to snap the Auror out of his daze, and whether it had been the words spoken or the tone behind them Draco was not sure. "Erm, tea is fine," Potter answered, shaking his head lightly before glancing at Draco and looking away.

"Pibby!" The elf popped instantly into the room. "Pibby, fetch Potter here a cup of tea, and bring me a glass of wine." With several affirmative squeaks, the elf vanished, casting the room into an even deeper silence in the wake of the loud crack that accompanied the elf's disappearance.

"So, do you ever drink anything non-alcoholic, Malfoy?" Potter asked, settling comfortably into the plush armchair. "Or is it just my company that drives you to it?"

Draco was taken aback by the smiling, relaxed tone of voice from the other man. Was he  _teasing_  Draco?

"The latter," he responded, lips turning up gently. "Although, I find it not nearly as intolerable as I once would have expected." As the words left his smiling mouth, he wasn't quite sure what it was that had possessed him to say that; even though the statement was true enough, he had had no intention of informing Potter of it. But once the words were past his lips he could not recall them and instead forced himself to gaze evenly at the other man as he waited for a response.

Potter seemed surprised and appeared about to reply, but just as his mouth opened, Pibby reappeared with a crack, bearing a silver tray he set upon a low table before turning to face Draco. "Is Master Draco needing anything else from Pibby, sir?"

"No, Pibby, that is quite all right," he dismissed, straightening in his chair and lowering his feet to the floor before picking up his glass of wine and sniffing it, breathing in the comforting aroma as he took a sip. How people lived without wine, Draco was sure he would never know.

Potter prepared his tea slowly before taking a swallow and leaning back to observe Draco. "So, you've spoken to Zabini?" he asked, staring at Draco with quiet intensity.

"If it's all right with you, I would prefer to hear any new information regarding the investigation first," Draco requested politely, daring to attempt a watered-down version of one of his charming smiles. It had a very high percentage rate for getting him his way, but he had no idea how it would be received by Potter. At that point in time, the man was an enigma—one that eyed him in silence for several moments before shifting uneasily and glancing around.

"It's a slow process, Malfoy" he began hesitantly. "It hasn't even been a fortnight since the latest attack." The fidgeting continued and he seemed unwilling to meet Draco's eye.

"Potter," Draco said as the other man's pause lengthened. "Are you telling me that you still have no new information about these attacks? Do you know  _anything_  at all in regards to the situation?" Draco had been taught at a very young age that the government was imperfect and that laws only existed to maintain order, but as a Malfoy, he was above adhering to such things. But the first attack had been four months ago, surely they must have  _some_  sort of direction to start in. If Harry Potter and his crime fighters could not figure out the party responsible and apprehend them, then what sort of protection could the Ministry offer anybody?

Closing his eyes, Draco sipped at his wine, breathing deeply. It did not matter, he reminded himself. Wisp was working on his own investigation, one that Draco was already confident would be more fruitful. He would have the answers well before Potter and once he did, whoever was responsible would never be seen again.

"We have suspicions," the Auror said cautiously, in a tone that Draco did not believe for a second. "And things are coming together…" Blowing the bangs from his eyes loudly, he tried again. "Look, Malfoy, there are things right now that we do know, but I can't talk about very much with you. But we're working on it, I promise. Cae's slammed with cases right now, but he's devoting as much time as he can to this one. More, even." His voice was earnest and his entire upper body was bent toward Draco as if proximity would help convince him of the brunet's sincerity.

"And why does he appear to be the only other one working on it? Are there no other Tracers in employ? Can the Ministry only afford one?" demanded Draco, before once again reminding himself about Wisp and forcing himself to calm.

"No, there are others," Potter said quickly. "It's just that, you know, none of them are as good as he is." There was a double meaning hidden in there that Draco could not ignore and did not want to wonder about. He was still maundering through the mystery that was Potter's relationship with this Caelix and filed the statement away for future examination.

"It sounds like you two work very closely together," Draco said lightly, sipping his wine in a casual manner.

"Yeah, he's really easy to work with," Potter grinned. "He's a certifiable genius. You would really like him if you met him."

Draco was much more doubtful of the truth of that overconfident statement—honestly, how would Potter know who Draco would or would not like?—but he could hardly express dislike of a man he had never met in front of what was clearly either one of his very good friends or possibly his lover.

Deciding to continue in that same light tone he had adopted earlier, he took another sip of wine before responding. "How could I not?" he asked delicately. "After hearing such raving things about the man from two of the Ministry's finest?"

"Well, I'll try not to talk him up too much, then," Potter responded, still smiling. "That way there's no chance of you being disappointed when you meet him." An unnecessary offer, really, seeing as how Draco was already disappointed with the mysterious man's existence in general.

"Don't strain yourself on my account, Potter." Without permission, the corners of Draco's lips turned up at the sight of Potter's smile. "If you must fawn over this stranger, by all means, fawn away."

"I hardly fawn, you prat," Potter retorted, grin stretching wider.

"You do," Draco said, "but I'm willing to overlook it in my duties as a gracious host."

As Potter chuckled and gulped at his tea—surely cold by now—Draco realized that they were having a conversation. They were exchanging words and none of them were hateful or intended to wound. They weren't threatening each other or throwing insults. Where were the two boys from Hogwarts who had hated each other so fiercely? When had they both turned into the sorts of persons who could sit down together and be civil? If they were no longer enemies or rivals, what were they? And more importantly, what could this newfound civility and easy manner lead them to become?

"So where's your mother?" Potter asked suddenly, pulling Draco's mind away from the trail of questions it had been following. "I keep expecting to see her whenever I come over, but I haven't. Is she here somewhere?" He peered around the room carefully, as if expecting to see her step from behind a bookshelf and openly mock him for his inability to spot her sooner.

"No," Draco cleared his throat. He had not expected Potter to ask after his family. Were the questions driven out of genuine curiosity? As one friend may inquire after the family of another friend? Or was Potter asking out of a sense of his own safety? Perhaps he expected her to still hold a grudge against him and was worried she might choose to take retribution while she had the Auror under her roof. Both possibilities made Draco want to laugh. "She resides in France now."

"It's just you living here?" the Auror asked in puzzled amazement, dark eyebrows shooting up to disappear beneath the thick thatch of black hair hanging low over his forehead.

"Where else would I live, Potter?" Draco asked in annoyance. Was there something wrong with his house? Did Potter not believe Draco deserved to live there anymore, in so nice a home? Did he believe that Draco should have fled to France with his mother?

Potter shook his head apologetically. "No, I just mean…" he hesitated for only a moment. "Doesn't it get…awfully lonely? Living in such a large house by yourself?"

"I have Pibby," Draco defended automatically, cringing the instant the words slipped from his mouth. Did he seriously just offer his  _house-elf_  as an example of good company? There was an unreadable expression on Potter's face, deepening at the three words spoken reflexively by Draco and he hastened to add something, anything else. "There was also a time not too long ago that Pansy and Blaise were both practically living here. It's not as if I'm alone." But despite the declaration, his voice became sad at both the remembrance and the realization that he was, in fact, very much alone. People had begun gradually leaving his life years ago; he should not have been surprised that the last two people he had trusted would do the same.

Blaise had been all but moved in by the time Draco found out about his numerous indiscretions. In a fury, Draco had flung all of the man's belongings across the grounds and given him a twelve-second head start to collect everything before the blond had begun blasting the various properties into ash.

But Pansy had continued to spend days and nights at the Manor, spending more time in Wiltshire than she did in her own flat. She had her own set of rooms to stay in, but more often than not would end up falling asleep in Draco's massive bed as they giggled and traded gossip late into the night. The rooms that had been set aside for her still held many of her things, but Draco had sealed them off for the time being. He was not yet ready to enter them and see time frozen, everything still in the place she had left it in the last time she had been over. The last time she would ever be over.

"I'm sorry, Draco," Potter spoke quietly, startling the blond from his depressing spiral of thoughts by the use of his given name, still sounding so odd rolling off the man's tongue. "I didn't mean to imply that you're alone."

Sighing heavily, Draco attempted a smile. "If you were anyone else, I would believe the slight to be intentional. But you're Harry bloody Potter, defender of injustices and the like. You may be a tactless sod, but you're hardly what I would call cruel."

"I really am sorry," the brunet said sheepishly, running one hand through his hair in an awkward gesture.

"It's fine, Potter, really," Draco said firmly, speaking down to his lap. Where had the easy banter from earlier gone? How had they found themselves in these murky, uncomfortable waters? Could they find their way back to before the matter of Draco's solitude had been brought up?

"So, er," Potter seemed to be struggling for words, in what Draco could only assume was a poor attempt to change the subject. "You've spoken with Zabini, then?"

Ah, yes. Blaise. The initial reason that Draco had written the Auror. It had nothing to do with Draco possibly being a little bit lonely, which, as he had so recently assured Potter, he was clearly not. They would discuss Blaise, Potter would leave, and Draco would be fine. He had Pibby and Lord Byron to keep him company, after all.

And ignoring how pathetic that thought made him sound, even to himself, he focused on answering Potter's question. "Not exactly," he admitted. "I received a letter from him this morning."

"Did he say where he was?" Potter asked, slipping out of his discomfort and into Auror-mode.

"No," Draco nearly snorted. "All it said was that he is aware I am searching for him and he is willing to speak to me if I wish to meet." Not that Draco wanted to meet with the bastard, of course.

"May I see the letter?" Potter asked politely.

At the words, Draco paused. His first instinct was refusal—he did not want Potter to read what was obviously a personal letter. But the letter was vague in its mentioning's to their previous relationship and this was concerning both Potter's job and the well-being of Draco. And Blaise's well-being too, he supposed, although he was no longer as concerned with that as he had once been.

Finally deciding that no harm would come of Potter reading the letter, he summoned it from his bedchambers and handed it to the Auror without a word. The dark-haired man took it and scanned it quickly before looking back to Draco and opening his mouth to speak. "And you haven't responded yet?"

"No," Draco raised an eyebrow. "I was unsure as to what I am allowed to put in writing. And in all honesty, a reply is hardly necessary."

"But I thought you wanted him safe?" Potter sounded puzzled, and Draco noticed that the same confused lines from earlier had appeared once more between his eyes. Draco's thumb twitched, longing to reach out and smooth the skin untroubled.

"Of course," Draco smiled.  _Mostly_. "I just meant that now that he believes I wish to meet in person, he will most likely show up here unannounced, reply or not. In fact, it will catch his attention even more if I don't send any reply at all."

"What," Potter began, but hesitated, seeming to steel himself before trying again. "What happened between the two of you? What did he mean by the way you two left things? And about discussing things calmly? He makes it sound like you were furious with him, like the last thing he was expecting was for you to contact him." The words were heavy with curiosity and spoken quickly as if Potter was afraid he was going to lose his nerve at any moment. Once he fell silent, he colored slightly but did not look away from Draco's eyes as he waited patiently for a response.

But Draco was at a loss for what to say. The last thing he wanted to explain to Potter was the detailed failings of his latest relationship, but Potter was both curious and stubborn, a frustrating combination. Deciding to skirt the relationship entirely, he chose his words with care. "Things became rather heated between us one night and Blaise left on a tense note. This is the first contact we've had since."

For a moment it looked as if Potter would not be satisfied with that answer. But the next instant Potter was nodding and handing the note back. "You're right about not wanting to send any of this information through post. So far we've managed to keep everything from the public out of respect for the families and to keep the investigation hushed. Also, we really have no desire to inspire anymore 'vigilante' work." The word was said with a barely disguised expression of disgust, which for some reason made Draco feel lighter at the thought that Potter did not approve of the public's thirst for vengeance.

"But you know Zabini much better," Potter continued, "so I'll leave the response up to you." The words sounded final, as if he was preparing to leave.

And maybe it was because Draco really was lonely, but he did not want Potter to leave. Not yet. He did not want to go back to spending his time in silence, aching from the gaping hole in his side that Pansy's death had left behind and which seemed strangely soothed in the presence of the Auror, or focusing on the bitter throb that Blaise's letter had caused. He wasn't ready for the oppressive quiet that draped the Manor—Draco had always loved silence, but the quiet of the past few days had made him uneasy and he had taken to spending time in the portraits gallery just to hear real voices.

The company, however, of his deceased ancestors left much to be desired. He would much prefer Potter's and he found himself blurting out the first words that he could think to stop the Auror from leaving.

"Would you like to stay for lunch?"

 

oOo

 

"Would you like to stay for lunch?"

 _Would I like to stay for lunch? Did Draco Malfoy just ask me to stay for lunch?_ Harry could only stare in surprise. Malfoy looked surprised as well, as if he hadn't been expecting to extend the invitation. The longer Harry remained silent, the more Malfoy flushed and fidgeted. The delicate pink staining his cheeks and nervous movements surprised Harry again, but this time, it was his own reaction to them that he was amazed by. He thought it was sweet. Adorable, even. Who knew Draco Malfoy was capable of being  _cute_?

But a flustered, blushing Malfoy really was very cute and Harry found himself wanting to say yes. "Sure, Malfoy," he agreed. Relief flashed across Malfoy's face briefly before being smoothed into his usual porcelain mask and Harry felt a twinge at the sight. Despite his earlier words, he must really be lonely if he was inviting Harry to eat with him. As far as Harry knew, Malfoy still did not like him.

Although, Harry was no longer sure if he knew the Malfoy sitting in front of him—the one who liked to read Muggle poetry and was now capable of holding a civil conversation, even joking with Harry. Had Harry ever heard him tell a joke before that day? Well, of course, many times, but they had all been at Harry's expense and intended to humiliate. How much had the blond changed after the war? What other personality adjustments was Malfoy hiding? What was Harry going to be surprised by next? So far, all of the changes seemed to be for the better.

Unaware of the questions swirling through Harry's brain, Malfoy rose to his feet and straightened his royal blue robes, tailored enticingly to accentuate the blond's narrow waist. Not that Harry would notice such things, of course.

"Follow me, then, Potter," Malfoy beckoned as he strode toward the door Harry had been led in through. Standing hastily, he hurried after the robes ahead of him.

He caught up to Malfoy quickly enough and fell into step beside the other man. As they left the library and entered the same large hall Harry had been led through, he was once again swept away in the grandeur and sheer size of the house. There was thick carpet covering the floor, as well as portraits and various works of art lining the walls.

They passed door after door as they continued to walk down the extravagant hallway. The doors were all large and beautiful, and every one different from the others. They passed one that was a deep brown color, the wood oiled and slick-looking. The knob was large and brassy and there was some sort of pattern carved into the wood that Harry could not make out as they passed. The next door was a beautiful chocolate color, smooth and unblemished, but with an even larger, more ornate golden handle and two tiny colored panes of glass set in the middle. The double-doors after that were a creamy beige color, with shimmery white petals painted along the wood, circling delicate silver handles. The next set was a deep cherry red with half a sun carved into each door and oval-shaped onyx handles.

Harry found the doors frustratingly intriguing and wanted to yank them all open in turn to discover what lay beyond them. But Malfoy had not slowed his pace and Harry felt it would be rude to begin running through his home all of a sudden, tearing open doors to peer inside before sprinting to the next one. He had no intention of making such a scene.

But he couldn't help but ask him about what mysteries lay beyond the wood. "Malfoy, what's in all of these rooms?"

"Far too many things and far too many rooms to list at the moment," Malfoy smirked, one eyebrow raised. "Are you saying you would like a tour?"

"I don't think I have the weeks it would take," Harry responded, glancing up at the chandeliers adorning the ceiling and the impossibly high, sweeping walls. How could this be someone's  _home_? Harry had spent most of the first decade of his life in a tiny cramped cupboard, barely enough room for him and a cot. He simply could not fathom how anybody could grow up in such splendor and sheer fucking  _space_. Even if the older two Malfoy's had still been living there, the house would have been far too large and still would have felt empty and lonely to Harry. It was just too big for three people, let alone one person and a house-elf. How did they ever find each other in a house that size? He felt as if people could live there together for years without ever catching a glimpse of one another.

The thought made Harry sad and he didn't like the idea of Malfoy living there alone.

"So exactly how long does this walk take?" Harry asked, hoping conversation would drive the sadness he felt for Malfoy from his mind. He was learning that he may not know Malfoy very well, but he knew with certainty that the last thing the blond would want from him was pity.

"Tired already, Potter?" Malfoy's smirk widened. "Don't worry; it's not as far to the dining room as your first walk to the library was. You passed it on your way there."

Shaking his head slowly, Harry could only manage a bemused grin. "How much extra time do you have to plan into your daily schedule just to get between rooms in your own fucking home?" It seemed almost ridiculous to Harry. Anybody living in a house that size had better make sure to have all of their belongings with them when they left their rooms, because having to trek constantly around the Manor sounded very unappealing to him.

Malfoy didn't reply but turned his head to give him a genuine smile, and Harry felt his breath catch. He had never seen a smile like that on Malfoy's face. It was open, amused, if Harry didn't know Malfoy better—which he really was starting to suspect was the case—he would have described the smile as friendly.

It took Harry a second to realize they had come to a stop before another set of doors, even larger than the ones they had passed so recently. The doors were a deep walnut color, with differently shaped panes of opaque glass fitted artfully throughout the top half. Thin lines of varying browns were painted in delicate flowing designs over the glass, matching the graceful patterns carved into the wood. There was something off about the set of doors, however, and Harry did not figure it out until Malfoy had stepped closer to the room.

"How do we get in?" he asked curiously. "There's no handle."

The smile that Malfoy had gifted him with earlier returned, silver eyes warm with amusement as he walked toward the doors without hesitation, grinning back at Harry as he neared them and the doors swung open of their own accord.

"You know, Muggles have doors that can do that, too," Harry chuckled as he followed the blond through the entrance.

"Really?" Malfoy asked, a hint of astonishment in the word. "How do they do that without magic?"

"Technology," Harry shrugged and laughed again at Malfoy's confusion.

"Technology?" the blond said the word slowly, as though it tasted strange on his tongue.

"It's like their version of magic," Harry explained, but stopped short when he looked around the room. Was it really only one room? It was so large that for a moment it took his breath away. With absolute certainty he knew that the Dursley's entire house would fit inside and still have plenty of space to spare. The ceilings were high and arched, with marble pillars scattered around the walls, holding them up. There were three entrances that Harry could see, all marked by tall marble archways. There was a massive fireplace at the head of a large table, long and rectangular, with dark straight-backed chairs edged in gold surrounding it. A heavy chandelier hung directly above it all, although Harry noticed that there were also several smaller ones hanging from various locations along the ceiling.

The wood of the room was an interesting dark rusty sort of gold, the color somehow managing to add a light glow to the room that Harry had not expected. Sunshine poured in through the enormous windows, framed by plum-colored drapes tied back to allow the light in. The tall windows offered a view of the expansive gardens, spreading out before them on the other side of the glass. It was a beautiful room and it was several minutes before Harry was able to stop staring around and focus his gaze on Malfoy, who had taken a seat at the table and was watching Harry with amusement.

"I suppose it can be rather overwhelming at first, no?" Malfoy asked, one corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile. Harry felt as if the word 'overwhelming' was an understatement, but he didn't press it. "Do come take a seat, though, Potter. Pibby has been waiting patiently to serve us." At his words, two plates of salad appeared on the table. Harry crossed the large room and sank into the seat across from Malfoy, who had already begun spearing the lettuce with one of the many forks laid out in front of each of them.

Having no idea what the proper silverware etiquette was, Harry grabbed a fork at random and began eating. The salad was very good; crisp and sweet, with sugared almonds and tiny pink berries hidden amongst the leaves. After the salad was a creamy soup that Malfoy informed him was cauliflower, so delicious that Harry had to fight against the urge to lick the bowl after he was finished. The soup was followed by some sort of meat dish that Harry was unfamiliar with, covered in an array of vegetables and coated in a sweet glaze that nearly tore a groan from his mouth with the first bite.

The two men were silent for most of the meal, but would occasionally exchange casual words, mostly light banter, but with a hint of teasing that Harry would never have thought possible between them. Between the numerous courses and the relaxed conversation, Harry was feeling full and content, until finally most of the dishes had vanished and two small crystal bowls piled high with a thick pink cream appeared in front of them. As Harry took a bite, he realized—with an actual groan this time—that it was strawberry mousse, with just the barest hint of vanilla.

Not bothering to hide his pleasure over the taste, Harry closed his eyes and moaned again as he ate an even larger spoonful. "Christ, Malfoy, do you eat like this every meal?" he asked, opening his eyes when there was no response. He was startled to find Malfoy staring at him oddly, grey eyes unblinking and intense, a slight pink flush to his cheeks. He was staring at Harry in the same way that Harry had been staring at his dessert just a moment ago.

"There's nothing wrong with eating with class, Potter," he said finally, seeming to snap from whatever daze he had lost himself in. "But no, I don't, normally. Pibby was just excited about having a guest." He bit down on the end of the sentence and Harry felt the twinge of sadness from earlier return.

"Well, it's the best meal I've had in a while," he said honestly. He might have to start making extra trips to the Manor just on the off chance of Malfoy asking him to dine there again. The company wouldn't be horrible either, he decided.

"I'm glad," said Malfoy, smiling a tiny smile, just the corners of his lips pulled up, but it was genuine and real and Harry couldn't help but smile back. A silence fell around them, but it was not uncomfortable or strained the way not too long ago Harry would have expected it to be. Malfoy was staring directly into his eyes—Harry hadn't noticed before how the blue of the other man's robes brought out the grey of his eyes, shining silver into Harry's own.

He saw Malfoy open his mouth to speak, leaning closer, when suddenly, a glowing Jack Russell Terrier bounded into the room and began speaking in Ron's voice: "Mate, what's happening with Malfoy? Is everything okay? Is Zabini there? I haven't heard from you so I s'pose everything is fine? Lemme know either way."

The terrier dissolved and Harry glanced back up to Malfoy, who was staring at the spot the Patronus had been in with an odd expression on his face.

"You okay?" Harry wondered, reaching a hand across the table but stopping halfway. "That's just Ron checking in. And making sure I check in, as well," he added with a grin.

Turning to stare at him, Malfoy smiled. "I've known Weasley just as long as you have, Potter," he said, not unkindly. "I do recognize the sound of his voice, and I did sit exams fifth year." He shook his head with amusement. "I do remember seeing the Patronuses you had taught all of your little army."

Harry's first thought was how odd it was that the man still remembered Ron's Patronus, six years after the exams. His second thought was how strange it was that he had never thought about the fact that they had all known each other for the exact amount of time. Actually, Harry had known Malfoy longer. He was the first classmate Harry had met, even if he had left Harry with the unpleasant reminder of Dudley.

"You know you were the first wizard I ever really met?" he said aloud, not sure if he had actually meant to speak or not.

"Am I really?" Malfoy looked astonished. "You mean that time in Madam Malkin's? When I had no idea who you were?" He turned his head slightly and tilted it, as if waiting for Harry to laugh and take back his words.

"Yep," Harry nodded. "I mean, Hagrid, obviously, was the first friend I ever made, unless you want to count a snake I set loose on my cousin in a Muggle zoo one time, but I only talked to him for a minute before setting him free. And Hagrid wasn't really allowed to use magic at the time, you know? You were the first student from Hogwarts that I met."

Malfoy seemed unable to speak. He was staring at Harry in utter amazement, as though the words coming out of Harry's mouth were warring with the image Malfoy had had of him all these years. "You didn't have a single friend for eleven years?" he finally asked, a strange tone in his voice. "How does that work? You're  _Harry fucking Potter,_ the Boy-Who-Fucking-Lived; I thought you had been raised as the same famous, entitled twat that snubbed me on the train all those years ago."

Harry felt a twinge of discomfort at the questions as he shook his head; he had never been comfortable discussing the details of his past, even with Ron and Hermione, who still didn't know everything. There were some things that he would prefer to keep to himself. He had never been any good at talking about his emotions, something that had contributed to his relationship with Ginny lasting long past when Harry should have ended it.

"Let's just say that Dumbledore could have chosen a more loving home for me to go to," Harry said wryly, in a tone of voice he hoped Malfoy would not press. He no longer held onto any anger toward the memory of Dumbledore or his many manipulations. Harry understood that some things had been necessary, such as sending him to live with the Dursleys. Dumbledore had been protecting him by placing him in their care, but there was still the fact that for ten years Harry had been locked in a cupboard, sometimes for days at a time, with only a meal every now and then and occasionally let out to use the toilet, and Dumbledore had not done a thing about it. How could he have placed Harry, a tiny infant, with three strangers and never check in on him once throughout eleven years? Harry would hope if he were ever given charge of a recently orphaned baby, he would pay stricter attention to where the child ended up than Dumbledore had. At least Sirius had had the excuse of Azkaban.

But the Dursleys were gone and Harry no longer had to see them ever again if he chose not to. He had not seen any of them in years and felt no desire to break the streak. Maybe one day he and Dudley would exchange Christmas cards, but that was all the contact Harry could picture any of them having.

Across the table, Malfoy was staring at him with a fierce intensity etched into his expression and Harry panicked for a moment, believing him to be performing Legilimency, but then relaxed as he felt no presence in his mind. He remembered some of his Occlumency from years ago, attempting it on occasion even after the disastrous lessons with Snape had ended explosively in near-violence, but he had never been very good at it.

But Malfoy just seemed to be studying him and deciding what to say. "That alters my entire perception I had of you as a child," he said finally in a low voice, as if admitting to something he would rather not have said aloud.

Wanting to get the subject away from such heavy memories, Harry shrugged and said lightly, "Sorry to disappoint you, Malfoy." He was hoping for a relaxed tone, but it sounded more strained than he would have liked.

Sighing sadly, Malfoy looked away. "You always do, don't you, Potter?"

Harry wanted to immediately snap at the words, but they were spoken in such a soft voice, as though Malfoy had been speaking to himself, and Harry was unsure of what to say. He felt strangely uncomfortable, though he couldn't figure out why.

"I should go," he stood abruptly. "To check in with Ron, and everything." He took a step away from the table. "And I have work, and stuff, so…" he trailed off and glanced around before blushing slightly and turning back to Malfoy. "Erm, how do you get out of here?"

Chuckling gently, Malfoy summoned Pibby and instructed the elf to show Harry out.

"Look, thanks for letting me know about Zabini," he said as he was leaving, trailing along behind the elf. "Let me know the second you hear anything else, okay?"

"Sure thing, Potter," Malfoy called softly, eyes glittering as they followed Harry out of the room.

 

Harry could not stop thinking about Malfoy for the rest of the day.

Once he got back to the office, Ron forced him to give him an update and chastised him for not checking in sooner. Harry grinned throughout the stern scolding, but his mind continued to conjure up images of Malfoy. Every time he saw the blond, he had been so different from what Harry expected.

When Harry had arrived at the Manor that first day, he had been expecting to see the Malfoy he remembered from school—all disgusted sneers and whining theatrics. But the Malfoy that had opened the door had simply stared at him and allowed him inside without making a single derisive comment. He had then shocked Harry by expressing genuine grief—which wasn't surprising given the circumstances, but what amazed him was that Malfoy allowed him to witness it. The blond had hidden what he could, Harry had seen that, but that time Malfoy hadn't attacked or thrown the Cruciatus at him. He hadn't even thrown him from the house, instead asking Harry—shockingly politely—to give him time to process. He had cooperated with Harry every step of the way, tracking down Zabini and Goyle, despite whatever history he and Zabini had—something Harry was still curious about.

And then, earlier that day, Harry had walked into the enormous library to find Malfoy curled up in an armchair reading  _Muggle poetry_. And spouting off statements such as, "Beauty is beauty, no matter the source". Where the hell did that even come from? The Malfoy that Harry had known in his youth would never have said anything like that, never have owned anything he knew to be Muggle, especially literature. He had even offered Harry tea and lunch and spoke to him the entire time in a civil manner, and even when he was mocking Harry or laughing at him, it held no trace of malice. He had been teasing Harry, something he still found difficult to believe. Had Malfoy changed so drastically in the last three years? Or had Harry never known him as well as he thought he had? Maybe he had misjudged Malfoy all along. Although, given Malfoy's involvement in their fights, it was impossible not to. But Harry was clearly no longer dealing with the Malfoy from the past. This was a new softer version. Maybe three years out of the suffocating shadow of Lucius' influence had led to the change or maybe he had simply grown up since leaving school.

There were so many things Harry was curious about, so many questions he had for the blond, things he now wanted to know. He would never be described as patient, and even now wanted to skip ahead in their friendship to the point where they could ask personal questions of each other.

With a start, Harry realized that he wanted to get to know Draco Malfoy. What would his self from ten years ago have said? What would Ron have to say if Harry expressed a desire for a friendship with Malfoy? But Ron had surprised Harry with his level of maturity. Not once had Harry heard him say anything spiteful or callous about the victims, their families, or the remaining Slytherins. It appeared that everyone had grown up since school.

Harry would have liked to have gotten to know the four Slytherins that had died better, to see if they had also changed in the time after the war. Even though he really didn't have much to compare it to; he had hardly had any contact throughout the entirety of Hogwarts with Theo, Millicent, Pansy, or Tracey. All he had really known of them was the sound of their haughty laughter at Malfoy's jokes, ringing arrogantly in his ears throughout his adolescence. But maybe they had softened just as Malfoy had. Maybe the war had humbled them and shaped them into people Harry would have liked to have in his life. He would never know now.

As he finally finished his paperwork for the day, he groaned and shook out the aching muscles of his right hand, sore from gripping a quill for so long. He rose from his chair stiffly, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as he waited for Ron to join him by the door. The redhead shuffled leisurely across the room, grinning as Harry tapped his foot impatiently.

"Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?" Ron asked as they strolled into the lifts. Harry considered the offer for a moment, but a large yawn made the decision for him.

"I'm too fucking tired tonight," he said, coloring apologetically at the wrinkled old witch who shot an alarmed glare his direction at his language.

"Tomorrow, then?" Ron asked, nudging him with an elbow. They exited the lifts and crossed the Atrium, pausing by the Floos to finish speaking.

"Yeah, tomorrow's fine," Harry agreed, picking up a handful of powder.

"I'll see you then, yeah?" Ron called back a farewell as Harry tossed the powder into the flames and stepped through to Number 12.

 

There was a light. Harry was aware of that. His back was resting against something soft and it was pleasantly dark, except for that damn annoying light. Did it not see that he was sleeping?

But then a familiar voice began speaking, one that began to penetrate through the drowsy haze of his sleep-shrouded mind.

"Harry, there's been another attack. You need to get over here right away."

At the words, he sat up instantly, limbs tangled in his bedsheets, dread pounding through his veins in hot thudding spikes. An attack? Ron's voice was low and serious—something bad had happened. Was it Malfoy? Was Malfoy okay? Had he been next on the list? Had Harry failed in his promises to keep the man safe and solve this before any more harm came to anyone?

But Ron continued and Harry forced himself to listen to the words. "We're rounding up all the Aurors we can, meet us over at the Greengrass house. Get here as fast as you can, Harry. Triggs is dead."

And with that the Patronus faded away, leaving a ringing silence behind in its disappearance. Triggs was dead? Harry had barely known Triggs—the man had only been an Auror for a few months. He was still new, he should never have been assigned to guard Greengrass, the killer was dangerous. But Harry remembered that he and Ron had been assigned to cases just as risky before they had even officially become Aurors.

Hastily, Harry stumbled into jeans and a random t-shirt, not bothering to put on his crimson robes. He nearly fell over as he swiftly tugged two mismatched socks on his feet before jamming them into shoes.

The last thought he had before Disapparating was that he was glad Malfoy was all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand let the action—in a week or so—commence! Or, as Shakespeare might say, "Cry 'Havoc', and let slip the dogs of war"! (sometimes I just can't help myself)
> 
> The fifth chapter is almost finished. I promise I shan't keep it to myself for too much longer!


	5. Kin to Sorrow

_Am I kin to Sorrow,  
__That so oft_ _  
Falls the knocker of my door—_ _  
Neither loud nor soft,_ _  
But as long accustomed,_ _  
Under Sorrow's hand?_ _  
Marigolds around the step_ _  
And rosemary stand,_ _  
And then comes Sorrow—_ _  
And what does Sorrow care_ _  
For the rosemary_ _  
Or the marigolds there?_ _  
Am I kin to Sorrow?_ _  
Are we kin?_ _  
That so oft upon my door—_  
_Oh, come in!_

"Kin to Sorrow"—Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

* * *

 

By the time Harry arrived at the house, everything was in chaos. A dozen or so other Aurors were already there, some of them running around and attempting to find out what had happened; others standing still, scanning the grounds silently, looking sleepy but alert; there was a group that had formed to put out a fire that had started on the second floor, the water from their wands shooting high through the air to land on the damaged wood with a loud sizzling hiss.

The house itself was large, nowhere near the monstrosity that was the Manor, but still what Harry would consider unnecessarily enormous. It was built from smooth grey stone, with steep black roofs and what appeared to be several turrets, making the house appear more of a small castle than an actual home. Ivy spread across half of its face, with wild red roses blossoming along the vines crept atop its dark surface. A large garden spread out before the building, lining the drive, where a stone fountain depicted a unicorn rearing back on its hind legs, head tossed proudly and horn pointed toward the sky, out of which a thick stream of water was gently flowing. The stone mane was long and untamed, falling thickly around the unicorn's face and neck. The tail was carved to appear caught in a breeze, whipping around the body of the creature delicately.

Harry would have liked several minutes to appreciate the beauty of the house and grounds, but Ron was shouting his name and he hurried to find his partner through the yelling throng. Scanning for ginger hair, he was able to spot him quickly enough.

"Ron!" he exclaimed as they neared each other. "What the fuck happened?"

"Nobody really seems to know," he panted. Evidently, he had been one of the Aurors rushing around asking questions. "All I know so far is that Greengrass is safe, but Triggs is dead." There was a painful tightness around his mouth as he said the last four words, and Harry understood. An Auror had now been killed. One of their own. If anybody hadn't taken this case seriously before, they would be now.

"Where's Greengrass?" Harry asked, glancing around and wondering if she was still there.

"I'm not sure," Ron said, finally having caught his breath. "Wescott was the one who called me down here. He went into the house with Lockwood and Seaver. We haven't seen any signals from them or anything yet, but we're getting a second group together to head inside. I doubt anybody expects whoever it was to still be hanging around, though. We—" He was cut off by a loud explosion. A large glass window along the front of the house had shattered without warning, raining razor-sharp shards onto the neatly trimmed hedges below.

The sky suddenly erupted with light, a searing bone white that faded to reveal what Harry at first thought to be the Dark Mark. But as the light dimmed further he realized there was no skull, just an enormous pale snake looking to be made of thick smoke wriggling grotesquely above their heads. As everybody paused to watch it, the tail flared crimson and the snake caught fire, the burning tip consuming the body gradually, the snake flailing so crudely, thrashing so slowly as it burnt to death. Where the crimson ring touched, the snake disintegrated, turning to ash and wispy smoke like a Muggle cigarette.

Finally, it was just the head left—the enormous jaws opened in a soundless scream as it was consumed by flame, and then it was gone.

Silence draped the grounds like still death—nobody moved or spoke, the crickets had gone quiet and not even the wind dared to make a rustle. Harry wasn't even sure if he heard anybody  _breathing_. He wasn't certain how long they stood like that, staring at the sky in mute horror.

But a sudden voice snapped the attention of everybody present and the moment was broken.

"What the fuck are you all doing standing around for?" Wescott demanded. As one, the Aurors whipped back to face the house to find him at the top of the large stone steps, Lockwood and Seaver directly behind him. "Abrahams, I want you and Cross to get two separate groups together, you're going to each take a floor and comb it. And I mean thoroughly." He paused to run a hand roughly through his hair. "I'm not sure what the fuck that just was, but we need more answers than we've been able to come up with. I want this over with." And with that he fell silent, striding swiftly down the steps. Abrahams and Cross immediately began dividing up the cluster of unorganized Aurors.

Harry and Ron had started to head over to be placed into a group when Wescott called to them loudly. "Potter! Weasley!" he barked. They both immediately headed over to where he stood, still some distance from the rest of the assembly. Lockwood drifted away toward the main group, most likely to make sure they were sorting themselves competently. Seaver remained next to Wescott, jaw squared and eyes sharp. She nodded to them both as they approached but remained silent, watching the horizon warily as if expecting another snake to appear above them without warning.

"Have you two had any luck locating Goyle or Zabini?" Wescott asked in a low voice.

"Sort of," Harry began hesitantly. "Goyle's mother has told us he's still in Germany, where he's been living for the last three years. Malfoy has heard from Zabini, but he didn't tell him a location. He's sure that Zabini will get curious and show up soon, though."

"All right," Wescott sighed. "God, this fucking case is turning out to be a nightmare." Harry, Ron, and Seaver all nodded in agreement. They were silent for a moment as they watched the two groups march across the grounds and into the dark house. An eerie silence fell over the four of them, broken by Ron.

"Do we know what happened in there?" he asked, jerking one shoulder toward the house in a gesture.

Wescott sighed and shook his head. "All we know is that Greengrass showed up at the Ministry not too long ago hysterical and covered in blood, saying that someone had gotten into the house and Triggs was dead." He rubbed his eyes and lowered his head for a moment before dragging his hands over his face as he lifted his gaze. Harry had never noticed before just how middle-aged the man looked. "We immediately started rounding everyone up, and that's the part where you two show up."

"Did you three find anything when you went in?" Harry asked. Had whoever killed Triggs remained behind to set off the spell? Or had it been triggered by something?

"We found Triggs," Seaver answered in a quiet voice, placing one hand on Wescott's shoulder in comfort. "That was right around the time that last spell went off. We followed the sound and had just enough time to see a figure Floo away."

Ron opened his mouth excitedly, but Seaver cut him off. "They completely destroyed the fireplace; we can't tell where they went."

"Why hang around all that time?" Harry mused aloud. "They must have known Greengrass was gone. Just to set the spell off? Why risk being caught?"

"Excellent questions," Wescott said. "Ones I have no doubt you'll find the answers to. However, in the meantime, there's been a change of plans regarding the case."

At the words, Harry's heart started pounding. Were he and Ron to be removed from it? Put in charge of some other aspect of the investigation? How would he keep his promise to Malfoy if he was replaced?

"You two are going to take Greengrass and Malfoy to the safe house and watch them there. If Goyle or Zabini show up or make contact, they'll join you." He stared into both of their eyes in turn, and Harry felt a shudder of apprehension at having to inform him that Malfoy had no intention of leaving the Manor.

"Erm, that might be a problem." He rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke but kept steady eye contact with Wescott.

"And why is that?" he asked in a harsh voice, but Harry knew the man and knew it had more to do than anything with what had recently happened.

"Malfoy has refused the safe house," the brunet informed him. "He says he feels much safer in the Manor and that's where he's going to stay." Wescott swore loudly and Harry hurried to continue. "I've been over the wards and the defenses with him and I agree that he'll be just as safe there as at the house we have set up for him. Safer, even, if I'm being honest."

"And you two would be fine staying there, would you?" Wescott asked flatly, folding his arms across his body and leaning back to survey them seriously.

Harry shrugged. "I have no problem with it. Ron?" He turned to look at his partner, who raked a hand through his hair.

"I'll want to go over everything with him, too, but I s'pose it's fine with me." The redhead allowed with a casual jerk of his shoulders.

"Fine," Wescott said, sighing. "As long as you two are watching them, it doesn't matter where. Weasley, you have Greengrass. Potter, you have Malfoy. We may send along more Aurors at any time. Greengrass is at St. Mungo's, where they're treating her for her hysteria. Weasley, you go collect her and take her straight to Malfoy Manor. Potter, I want you to go there ahead of him and make sure Malfoy knows what's happened." He stared hard at the both of them for a moment before turning and striding away, Seaver ghosting several yards behind.

"Christ, staying in Malfoy Manor," Ron muttered. "Never fucking thought I would hear myself say  _those_ words."

"It's different now," Harry said softly, sure that Ron was thinking of his only trip to the house when they had been seventeen. Harry had been worried as well the first time he Apparated before the intimidating main gate, certain that he would hear Hermione's screams echoing from the walls, or see the specter of Voldemort lurking deep within every shadow. But the house had not reminded him of that time at all, so full of fear and danger. The Manor no longer represented those things.

"Think of it this way," Harry raised his voice to a normal volume. "We can drink all his expensive liquor and you can order his house-elf around."

"Yeah, all right," Ron brightened, but the expression slipped from his face back into a solemn mask as his eyes flicked to the house. "I better go get Greengrass," he sighed. "You know all that hospital procedure discharge shit always takes fucking forever."

"Right," Harry nodded. "I'll head over to the Manor and let Malfoy know about the change of plan. Hopefully I won't get hexed too badly for waking him." Ron snorted and clapped him on the shoulder before Disapparating.

Glancing at the house one last time before closing his eyes, Harry prepared to Disapparate as well, picturing Malfoy Manor in his mind just as a voice yelled out his name.

"Harry!"

His eyes snapped open to see Caelix's familiar long stride heading toward him. "Cae? What are you doing here?" Sometimes he would leave the lab to investigate a crime scene himself, but it wasn't too common. Had they woken him specifically for this?

"I was at the Ministry when that girl, Daphne, showed up," Cae explained quietly as he reached Harry's side, sounding uncharacteristically grim. "They called me here to check out where Triggs was killed." There was a tinge of sadness in his voice, but Harry could also hear how worn he sounded. In the dim light of the waning moon, Harry studied the man closely. He looked exhausted. There were rings under his eyes that Harry could see even in the weak lighting, as well as tired lines around his mouth. When was the last time he had had a full night's sleep?

"Fucking hell, Cae, what were you doing at work so late?" Harry asked sternly. The man could not be allowed to continue doing that to himself, working himself to the point of dropping; Harry would see to it personally if he had to.

"Working," was the dry reply.

"Jesus Christ, Caelix!" Harry swore loudly, startling the other man. "You need to get some fucking sleep. It's okay to stop working every now and then, you know." Harry reached out to grasp his shoulder and turn him more fully toward himself. "You're going to kill yourself if you keep this up." And Harry wouldn't allow that to happen, the same way he would interfere if he noticed Ron working himself that hard.

Caelix stared at him for several moments before closing his eyes and rubbing his face with one hand. "Fuck. Yeah, you're right, P," he sounded resigned, as though Harry had forced him to admit a shameful weakness. "Fuck, I'm fucking tired, though." He shook himself as if attempting to shake off the exhaustion clinging to his bones.

"Take tomorrow off," Harry suggested, already knowing that Caelix would refuse. The man did not disappoint.

"Not fucking likely," he stated, folding his arms and looking around. "After what happened here tonight? That's not really an option."

Sighing in both agreement and defeat, Harry shook him lightly with the grip he still had on the other man's shoulder. "Fine," he said. "But promise me you'll go home to get some sleep tonight, and not stay at work all night instead. And promise you won't come in too early tomorrow," he added.

Chuckling softly, Caelix nodded. "All right, Harry, I promise." His eyes seemed to glow blue in the dim lighting and Harry suddenly realized how long he had had his hand on the man. He snatched his fingers back and jammed both fists into the front pockets of his jeans, taking a step backwards away from both Caelix and the house.

"Aren't you coming in with me?" asked a confused Caelix, gesturing to the castle-like structure with one arm.

"No, I can't," Harry told him, glancing toward the dark building. "I have to get to Malfoy Manor. We're taking Greengrass there, and we're gonna stay with them both until this is solved."

"You're going to be staying at Malfoy Manor?" Caelix sounded incredulous. "Wescott folded on the safe house? Jesus Christ, money really can get you your way, can't it?" It wasn't spoken nastily or mean-spirited, but Harry felt defensive anyway, as if his protection of Malfoy extended even to the blond's honor.

"The Manor is better protected than the safe house, in all honesty," Harry explained, for some odd reason not liking the idea of Caelix thinking of Malfoy as the type of person who bought off everybody around him. Even though Harry did not know for certain, he felt hopeful that that was not who Malfoy was.

"I sincerely hope so, for your sake, Harry," Caelix said softly. "You and Ron be fucking careful, all right?" There was worry in his voice that Harry did not think he had ever heard from the man. Caelix was normally so cheerful and sarcastic, always joking and making people laugh. He was rarely solemn or concerned, not like he was now as he gazed evenly at Harry, waiting for a response.

"I will, we both will," Harry vowed. "I promise, C."

Caelix didn't say anything at first but offered Harry a warm smile. "Thanks, Harry," he said after several moments. One pale limb rose to wrap a hand around Harry's upper arm and squeeze lightly. "And thanks for caring." Squeezing once more, he dropped his arm and turned away, striding quickly across the flowerbeds bursting with blossoms, colors impossible to make out in the weak moonlight, and entered the house. Once he was out of sight, Harry blinked several times before shaking himself and Disapparating to Malfoy Manor.

 

oOo

 

There was a pounding noise. Draco was aware of that. It was dark, and there was pounding. There was also an odd squeaking sound somewhere to his left, and he blinked groggily to find Pibby's face alarmingly close to his own. Yelping, he rolled to his right amidst a tangle of blankets.

"Master Draco!" the elf squeaked, the same strange noise he had heard earlier. Now it made sense to him. But the pounding was still there. "Harry Potter is being here, sir! Harry Potter is being down at the gate!"

"Potter's here?" Draco asked in disbelief, stifling a yawn. What time was it? What the fuck was Potter doing there at that time of night?

As the implications shoved their way through the drowsy haze still permeating Draco's brain to hit the blond fully, he stiffened for the briefest of moments before scrambling from the bed. The wand lying on his bedside table was snatched up quickly and with a start, he realized that the pounding from earlier was from Potter banging on the wards, something Draco remedied by immediately lowering them for the Auror before tripping in his haste to exit the room.

Potter was there. At Draco's home. At an abysmal time of night. That could only be bad. Who was it? Who had been killed? Draco selfishly hoped it was Daphne. He could not lose Greg, or Blaise, even, the smug bastard.

Lights flared on as he hurried down the large staircase to find Potter already inside, down on one knee speaking quietly to Pibby.

"Malfoy," he straightened and strode forward. For a moment, Draco was sure he saw what looked like relief on the other man's face, but the next second it was replaced by what Draco was beginning to think of as his Auror Face. "I was asking Pibby about the wards, and he said that I'm the only one who's been by lately." For a moment, Draco believed that the man was making a slight, but Potter continued speaking in the same deep, serious voice. "Something's happened." With a sigh he stepped closer, looking Draco straight in the eye. He was staring at the blond so intensely that for a wild moment he thought the man meant to kiss him, but then Potter opened his mouth once more and the weight of his words slammed into Draco with an interesting combination of force. "Daphne's been attacked."

At the words, Draco felt as if he had taken a Beater's bat to the chest. A heavy feeling of dread crunched through his insides at the thought of Daphne's murder. He had never really known her. She had always been quiet and kept to herself; Pansy used to say all the time that she was a stuck-up bitch who thought herself too good for the others, but Draco was not sure if that had ever been true. Pansy tended to think negatively of most people, so he learned to somewhat doubt her opinion of a person.

But he had never wished to see the girl dead.

The other feeling that smashed into him at the words was a relief so intense it was nearly crippling. Greg and Blaise—the bastard—were safe. They hadn't been stolen from Draco the way everybody else had. But the universe seemed intent to continue to punish the blond, and he knew there was still time to lose them as he had lost the others.

"She's okay, though."

The words took a moment to penetrate the thick haze caused by the strange combination of emotions swirling through Draco. "She's okay?" he echoed. Hadn't Potter said she had been attacked? But she was alive? None of the others had lived. Had that new Auror, the one whose name Draco could not remember, saved her? Had he proven himself in the field that night?

"Triggs is dead," Potter said quietly, glancing away.

Without realizing what he was doing, Draco reached out a hand to place loosely around Potter's upper arm. "I'm sorry," he said just as softly, unsure of how close Potter had been to the man.

"Daphne was attacked in her home," the brunet continued, staring at the pale fingers wrapped around his bicep, but he hadn't shaken off the contact and Draco did not remove his touch. "Under Auror protection. They killed him and still got away." His voice grew bitter and angry as if he blamed himself personally for the culprit escaping. And knowing Potter the way Draco did, he knew the man really did hold himself responsible, the absolute fucking Gryffindor. "They were fucking there, they were in the house still, they cast that fucking spell, and they still got away. Fuck!" He tore himself from Draco's grasp and began pacing angrily.

"Tell me what happened," Draco requested, but gently, so as to not draw Potter's fury upon himself.

The man paused for a moment, raking both hands through his black hair roughly. "Ron's Patronus woke me a little while ago, saying that there had been an attack and to get over to the Greengrass house. That Triggs was dead," his volume lowered and he took a breath. "When I got there, there was a fire and nobody seemed to know what was going on. Three Aurors had gone in and we were waiting for a signal or, I dunno, fucking  _something_. Then, out of nowhere, the fucking window explodes and there's this thing in the sky that looks like the Dark Mark,"—Draco felt himself flinch slightly—"but there was no skull. It was just this huge snake slithering in slow motion. Then the fucking tail starts burning up and the whole thing goes up in flames." He slipped his fingers beneath his glasses and rubbed his eyes with trembling hands. Draco wasn't sure if they trembled with anger or exhaustion. Probably stress, he decided.

With a subtle swishing motion of Draco's wand, a chair appeared directly behind Potter. Draco stepped forward and placed his hands on the Auror's shoulders, gently pushing him down into the chair. He sank into the seat without protest and stared up at Draco.

"And I'm afraid this latest attack has led to a change in plan," Potter sighed as if expecting his next words to cause an argument. Draco waited patiently—or not so much, really, but Potter wasn't paying close attention—for the Auror to continue speaking. "Until this is solved and the killer caught, Daphne, Ron and I are going to be staying here in the Manor with you."

Draco blinked down at him. Three others coming to stay in the Manor? It sounded as if they had already moved in. Draco had the space, of course, but they could still try  _asking_ him to house three old schoolmates—none of whom he had gotten along with in the past—before they just moved right in.

"Unless you changed your mind about the Ministry safe house?" Potter asked, touching Draco's bare forearm with the tips of his fingers. It wasn't until that moment that Draco realized he was not wearing a shirt, just black silk pajama bottoms slung low on his narrow hips, the long hems pooled around his feet. He normally slept without a shirt and had been too panicked upon waking to remember to throw one on. A fierce blush threatened to stain his entire upper body, but he managed to somewhat tamp it down.

Automatically, his mouth opened as he fought to ignore his sudden embarrassment. "Forgive me for not having gained any faith in the Ministry recently in regards to the attacks and the zero answers I know them to have found so far." The words were spoken before he had time to think them through and the moment they left his mouth he regretted them. Potter quickly removed his hand and looked away.

"You're right, of course," he said softly. "We've been able to tell you nothing so far. But this case just took top priority in the Department."

The words surprised Draco. Why should they start caring now? Neither the Ministry nor the wizarding community had cared about the Slytherins in the past. Draco knew for certain by the hate mail he still occasionally received—that he knew Pibby secretly destroyed—how much the wizarding world still hated him. And the Aurors were not exempt from that hatred. They had proven that with delight at every opportunity they could in the past three years. Potter was the least vitriolic Auror that Draco had dealt with so far.

Everyone seemed to blame the blond and the other Slytherins for everything that had happened in the war, as if what they had gone through, what Draco had gone through, had been trivial and easy in comparison. As if Draco had fucking  _enjoyed_ having the Dark Lord and his sociopathic minions living in his home. It had taken him so long to stop seeing them around every corner of the Manor. The fear had been particularly bad in the beginning, after his mother had left. Pansy had stayed over nearly every night with him, curled up together in his enormous bed. She would smooth the hair from his forehead and tell him everything was okay, the war was over, the Dark Lord was gone, his aunt was dead and he would never have to hear her twisted cackle ever again.

The others would visit so often at first, filling the Manor with their jokes and laughter and presence until Draco had no longer feared the darkness of the empty rooms. But gradually, they visited less and less, until they finally all began leading their own separate lives, something that Draco had not even been fully aware of until Potter had brought the reality crashing painfully down onto his shoulders.

"You and Weasley really want to stay here?" Draco glanced around. He remembered the only other time the two Gryffindors had been in the Manor together. It was not a happy memory. Surely the house must remind both of them of that horrid time. Weasley's girlfriend had been  _tortured_  here, for Merlin's sake!

"We're both willing to," Potter responded in the same quiet voice. "I meant my promise from earlier, Draco, I'm not going to allow any harm to come to you or anybody else."

The blond wanted to bristle at the thought of everyone thinking he needed protection—from the Chosen One, of all people—but a warm comfort had settled into his limbs at the sound of Potter using his given name, as well as the thought of the Auror wanting to protect him. And Draco really didn't think he would mind having company around, especially when that company came in a muscle wrapped form as fit as Potter's.

"I suppose I have enough room to house a fellow Slytherin and two uncouth Gryffindors," he allowed, stepping back. "I'll have Pibby begin preparing the rooms immediately." The elf, still lurking near the wall awaiting command, squeaked an affirmative and vanished with a crack.

"You look exhausted, Potter," Draco said, peering at him closely. "Come, I will show you to your room." The Auror obviously needed sleep.

"No, I should wait here for Ron and Greengrass," he protested, leaning away from Draco, difficult as always.

"I will wait up for them and show them to their rooms. That's all we can do tonight." He tugged the Auror to his feet and began leading him up the curving marble staircase. The man was exhausted enough not to fight him but instead trailed wearily behind.

"Ron and Greengrass should be here soon," he said tiredly, one hand sliding along the wide railing. "They took her to St. Mungo's, but as far as I know she wasn't injured, so releasing her shouldn't be a problem."

"What exactly happened?" Draco asked, keeping his back to Potter. "How did she get away?"

"I'm not sure," he answered honestly. "All I know is that she showed up at the Ministry covered in Triggs blood, saying that he was dead and someone was in the house. That was when they called the Aurors and we headed over."

"I wonder if she saw anything," Draco murmured as they reached the second floor and he began leading the other man down a long hallway. They passed room after room until finally, they stopped at a large olive-colored door.

"All of the bedrooms have separate wards attuned to them," he explained to Potter. "Place your hand on the knob like this," he reached out and picked up Potter's hand, placing it gently on the copper handle before removing his fingers slowly, "and say  _Domicilium_ , and the wards will recognize only you as able to access them, unless you give others permission to enter."

Potter looked surprised at being told it was possible to lock Draco out. "How long will they stay tuned to me?"

Draco shrugged. "Until you remove the spell. Eventually the magic of the house will cancel out the separate magic of the wards, but that can take some time."

"Christ, your family really is paranoid, aren't they?" Potter mused, whispering the spell and staring in wonder as both the knob and his hand glowed blue. "Even around each other." With a twist of the handle, the door swung open. Lamps flared to life as he took several steps into the room.

"The wards on the separate rooms were a very recent addition, actually," Draco informed him quietly. He did not wish to discuss the time the Dark Lord and his followers had spent at the Manor, but he did not like Potter's insinuation that his ancestors had never trusted one another. Family had always been important to them, even if Draco's own had recently become splintered and irreparable.

Potter took a step closer and stretched out a hand apologetically, but his fingertips were still at least a yard away from Draco, hanging awkwardly between them in the empty air. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that," he said regretfully. "And I didn't mean to bring anything up."

Shaking his head, Draco sighed. "I doubt we'll be able to stop ourselves from bringing the past up, Potter," he said ruefully. "We have far too much of a history for that. It's going to happen regardless of intention. But let's agree no more apologies, all right?" He pinned the brunet with a stare. "It's not your fault the Dark Lord decided to live here. It's all in the past, and I have dealt with it." Draco had survived. He had healed—mostly. There was still the occasional nightmare, but other than that he was fine. Right?

"No more apologies," Potter smiled and lowered his arm. "Thanks, by the way." He glanced around the room. "For not being difficult about me just telling you we're all going to be staying here."

"I would say your presence in my home is in my best interest," Draco responded. Potter was  _thanking_  him? For what? The opportunity to rescue the blond? Were adrenaline and heroics really so necessary to the man's life?

"Yeah, I s'pose," the Auror grinned, the expression twisting as he stifled a yawn.

"Go to sleep, Potter," Draco commanded gently. "The bedroom is through there," he pointed to the door directly opposite him in the small low-lit sitting room Potter was currently gazing around. "The bathroom is that door," he pointed to another door along the wall adjacent, directly beneath a lamp, "and the last door leads to a small private study. If there are any books you require, let Pibby know and he shall see about getting them for you." He turned to leave the doorway but paused. "There should be pajamas laid out on the bed for you. If you need anything at all, just call for Pibby." He left the doorway to the quiet sound of Potter thanking him again.

On his way back downstairs, Draco paused at his rooms to finally tug a soft sleep shirt over his head before continuing to the first-level parlour to await Weasley and Daphne.

Once there, he poured himself a full glass of brandy and took several large gulps as he processed the newest horrifying development. As far as he knew, the attacks had been spread out over the past four months, but it hadn't even been two weeks since Pansy had been murdered. The killer was either getting impatient or knew that the Aurors were taking this more seriously. Maybe the increased risk added a level of thrill for the culprit.

Would Daphne continue to be the target? Would the killer focus on eliminating her before turning to the rest of them? Or would he try for someone else now in the face of his failure? Perhaps he would assume that they would protect Daphne the fiercest now, thinking her to be next, and while they were focused on her, he would sneak up behind Draco instead. Could Potter really protect him?

Hopefully, Wisp would be able to track down the man before it came to that—before Draco lost any more of his friends, not to mention his own life.

He wasn't sure how long he sat in the parlour, pondering over everything when Pibby popped in to inform him that an unknown Auror and a woman were waiting at the gate. Draco instructed him to show them into the foyer, taking the time to finish his drink before making his way slowly there himself. He entered the small room several moments before a different door opened to admit a grim-looking Weasley, glancing around uneasily and followed closely by a shaken-looking Daphne, eyes darting around herself fearfully as though certain she had been led into some sort of trap and her attacker was going to jump out at her at any moment.

"Daphne, Weasley," Draco greeted, nodding at them both in turn.

"Malfoy," Weasley sounded wary and as if he was fully expecting some sort of spiteful comment in place of a greeting. The reaction made Draco want to laugh if the situation was not so serious.

"Pibby has prepared rooms for the three of you," the blond told them smoothly. "They're all near each other." He neglected to mention the fact that his own room was right next to Potter's, as well. "There are bedclothes laid out for the both of you in your rooms. Follow me." And without waiting for a response, he turned and began the long trek back upstairs to the guest rooms.

Unlike his previous trip upstairs with Potter, this one was mostly silent. As they stepped onto the landing, Weasley asked where Potter was. "He's asleep," Draco answered, noting that Weasley's eyes widened in surprise, as if staying in the Manor was fine but the thought of  _sleeping_  there was distasteful.

They neared the rooms and Draco pointed out the olive green door. "That door is Potter's. The room beyond it," he pointed toward a pale blue door further down the hall, "is Daphne's." She nodded but remained silent. "The charcoal door beyond it is yours, Weasley."

"Right," Weasley affirmed, jaw squared.

Draco quickly walked them through the process of setting the wards on their rooms, then bid them a polite good night. "If either of you needs anything, just call for Pibby, and he'll see you attended to." He turned to leave, but Weasley cleared his throat behind him.

"Thanks, Malfoy," he offered gruffly. "Harry said that the defenses here are better than the safe house we had." He ignored the snort of amusement from Draco. When had the Ministry ever proven itself to be the most competent? "So you know, thanks for refusing the safe house and letting us set up here."

The unexpected words left Draco surprised. Did Weasley just offer him genuine gratitude? "Of course," he said automatically. "Feel free to make yourselves at home, to an extent," he added. "Pibby will have breakfast prepared in the morning." And with that farewell, he whirled around and strolled slowly down the hall, pausing before his door to glance back, noting that the hall was once again empty and neither Weasley nor Daphne had lingered outside their rooms.

Slipping back under the silk covers of his sheets, he gazed around the dark room uneasily. Everything Potter had told him over the last week and a half tumbled through his brain, denying him sleep. It was an interesting feeling, knowing that some faceless killer was out stalking the night, intent on seeing Draco dead. And not just dead, but torn apart. Was this how Potter had felt their entire adolescence? Feeling as if death was coming for him from every corner? Peering out at him everywhere he went? At least when the Dark Lord lived in the Manor, Draco knew where the danger was and what to expect. But this was different. Whatever this was, it had killed four people already, four of Draco's friends. And it still wanted him.

Even with the comfort that came from two trained Aurors—Harry Potter amongst them— currently staying in his house, not far from where he lay, sleep was a long time in coming.

 

Sunshine drifted gently through the large glass doors opposite Draco's bed, opening up to a stone balcony bathed in morning light. For a moment he lay still, noting that the sunlight was streaked with a soft pink and he raised his head to see that it was still dawn. The sun had risen but it was still early, grey clouds slashing the pale blue of the sky.

Suddenly, the memory of the previous night came flooding back to him and he jerked into an upright position. Potter was there, in his home. Potter was staying at the Manor. Potter and  _Weasley_  were both staying at the Manor. Daphne was staying as well. Daphne had been attacked. The Auror watching over her was dead. There was still no word from Greg, and Blaise had yet to make an appearance.

Scrambling out of bed, Draco hurried into the shower, rushing through his normally long routine, unwilling to allow two Gryffindors and a stranger to simply roam his home while he was locked in his bedroom.

Once he was showered and dried, he selected a pair of jade-colored robes and combed his hair until it swept softly across his forehead at just the right angle. Satisfied with his appearance, he exited his rooms and scanned the hall, noticing that all of the bedroom doors were closed. He had no idea if anybody was awake yet or had ventured from their chambers.

As he strolled atop the thick carpet of the long hallway, he called out to Pibby, who popped instantly into view and was immediately instructed to alert Draco the moment any of the guests ventured from their chambers, before showing them to the dining room for breakfast.

Deciding to wait to dine with the others—it was quite a bit earlier than Draco had initially thought—he drifted the lengthy distance to the library on the second floor, his favorite room in the house. It was smaller than the downstairs library, offering a cozier feel to Draco's mind. Bookshelves surrounded the entire room; the colors of the shelves and encircling walls were painted in deep purples and dark butterscotch golds, amongst splashes of the rich browns of the wood. One wall was made entirely of glass, allowing as much early morning light as possible to pour softly into the room and offering an unbroken view of the gardens below, the grounds of the estate stretching to the very horizon and beyond. Squashy brown armchairs and low tables were scattered around the space, beneath muted lamps covered by thin grey shades. A delicate wooden staircase was set in the middle of the room, spiraling up to a second level, where Draco knew were low ceilings and comfortable brown leather couches, as well as his own personal collection of books.

It was there that he headed, to curl himself into a chocolate-colored chaise lounge after pulling down a leather-bound hardback of the collected works of Emily Dickinson.

Settling comfortably into the chair, he opened to a random page, falling, as he always did, into the depth of the words reverberating through him, as well as a sort of perverse joy in being able to read an author such as Emily Dickinson in his father's house.

The day after his father had been sentenced to Azkaban, Draco had had Pibby clear out the entire upper level of the second-floor library to make room for his collection of Muggle literature, something he had discovered to his delight during his second year of Hogwarts. Somebody—he had always suspected Granger—had left an old copy of  _The Count of Monte Cristo_  lying around, and Draco had picked it up and began flipping through it curiously. After that, he could not put it down. It was still one of his favorites and he would always look at it with fond eyes whenever he spied it on the shelf.

The moment he had finished that book, he had known it would not be enough. He tracked down a Ravenclaw fourth year and bought several Muggle books off of her, Macbeth and Wuthering Heights his favorites among them. He paid her to smuggle him a Muggle book catalogue, where he began purchasing faster than he could read: Frankenstein, Lord of the Rings, Jane Eyre, Hamlet, the Phantom of the Opera, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Middlemarch, Les Miserables, the Chronicles of Narnia, Dracula, Rebecca, the Three Musketeers, the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson—his fairytale collection was extremely treasured by him; there was something just so  _fascinating_  about hearing magic described from a Muggle perspective—Victor Hugo, Charles Dickens, George Orwell, Lewis Carroll, Oscar Wilde, Jane Austen, Voltaire, William Blake, William Shakespeare.

And with the two Williams came his discovery of poetry. To say that it changed his life would be an understatement. It might possibly have been the only thing that kept him alive during the darker parts of the war. When he had nothing else, nobody else to turn to, to talk to about his fear and rage and pain, he had poetry. It put into words everything that Draco had felt, every emotion he had ever had. It was like staring at himself laid bare on white pages.

After that, the purchases became more frequent. Following Blake and Shakespeare was Yeats, then Wordsworth; Rudyard Kipling; Lord Byron; Christina Rossetti; Percy Bysshe Shelley; the Brontë sisters; Dylan Thomas; Matthew Arnold; Elizabeth Barrett Browning; Alfred, Lord Tennyson; John Keats; Alexander Pope. And that was right around when he had discovered the American poets—Emily Dickinson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, E.E. Cummings, Sylvia Plath, Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Theodore Roethke, Henry David Thoreau, Edna St. Vincent Millay, T.S. Eliot, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Edgar Allan Poe. The American Muggle poets had always seemed even more taboo to Draco, who had always secretly felt that the riskier combination of both Muggle and American was more dangerous.

As his collection at school would begin to pile up, he would smuggle them home during holidays, shrunk and hidden in the false bottom of his trunk that he always kept them in. He would then hide them—still shrunk—in various locations around his room, never leaving them in one place for too long if he was at home. He wasn't sure what exactly his father would have done to him if he had ever found the book collection; Lucius had always tended to be rather unpredictable with his discipline.

Preferring to never find out the answer to that, Draco did his best to keep them hidden at all costs—until the day his father was removed from his life and thrown back into Azkaban, despite his mother's multiple attempts to appeal the Wizengamot's decision. Failing that, she packed her things and informed Draco she would be leaving for France and begged him to accompany her. But something in him would not allow it. He would not be the guilty ex-Death Eater who turned tail and ran; he would not allow the public's view of himself to win. He was determined to build back the Malfoy empire, earn back the power and respect that his father had lost their family, perhaps forever. But Draco could try and he would.

As he lost himself further in Dickinson's words, he also lost track of the time, until with a crack that nearly jolted him from his reclined position, Pibby popped into the room. "Master Draco, sir, Harry Potter is being awake now, sir, and is asking to be brought to Master Draco."

"Very well, Pibby," Draco waved, settling back onto the chaise. "Bring him. But if the others wake, take them to the dining room and serve them breakfast."

"Yes, Master Draco, sir," Pibby squeaked excitedly, vanishing with another crack. Pibby, at least, was excited about the three guests staying at the Manor.

A cup of tea appeared on the table next to the blond and he picked it up, sipping at it as he continued to read, waiting for Potter to arrive.

A small cough had his eyes flashing up to find Potter leaning against the gleaming rail of the wooden banister several yards away, eyeing Draco curiously. The blond was surprised that the Auror had managed to sneak up on him. How silent was the man? Perhaps all those years of slinking around the castle after hours underneath his Invisibility Cloak had left him with some sort of preternatural creeping abilities.

"Morning, Potter," Draco greeted, straightening and lowering his feet to the floor. He reached for one of the numerous markers always lying around the library and tucked it between the pages of the book before setting it aside. Draco was constantly reading multiple novels and was forever finding himself in need of book markers.

"And what are we reading today?" Potter ignored the greeting and stepped closer to scan the cover of the thick book the blond had just set down. "Emily Dickinson?" He sank onto the chaise next to Draco and shook his head, smiling in disbelief. "You continue to surprise me, Malfoy."

The blond smiled back as he quoted softly:

" _There is no Frigate like a Book_  
 _To take us Lands away,_  
 _Nor any Coursers like a Page_  
 _Of prancing Poetry-_  
 _This Traverse may the poorest take_  
 _Without oppress of Toll-_  
 _How frugal is the Chariot_  
 _That bears a Human soul_ ".

"And you can fucking quote her from memory," Potter's grin widened and he shook his head even harder. "Of course you can."

"Don't underestimate me, Potter," Draco raised an eyebrow. "You know far less about me than you think you do."

"Yeah, I'm starting to see that," Potter agreed quietly, staring hard at Draco, who began to feel fidgety and nervous beneath the penetrating green gaze.

"Shall we head down to breakfast, then?" he asked, desperate for anything to break the silence.

Potter groaned in response. "I just walked all the way here to find you!"

"And now you have," Draco smirked. "And now we are leaving."

Grumbling, Potter rose and followed Draco down the graceful staircase and out of the room, now fully drenched in morning sunshine, the tall windows pouring soft golden light over the oiled wood of the bookshelves. Potter paused to glance around himself, appearing as if he wanted to say something, but when Draco raised an eyebrow in inquiry, he merely shrugged and gestured toward the blond to continue.

As they made their way down the hall, Draco was acutely aware of just how close Potter walked beside him. Or maybe he was the one walking that close to Potter, he wasn't sure. But they would occasionally brush elbows as they spoke of unimportant things, such as changes in the Ministry and Weasley's engagement to Granger. Potter, of course, was to be best man. Obviously.

After all, who was better than Harry Potter?

Firmly ignoring how odd that question felt passing through his mind, Draco led the way to the dining room. When they entered, it was to find Weasley and Daphne already seated, both sipping tea. Well, sipping as far as Daphne was concerned, Draco supposed; Weasley was more like gulping the liquid, the boorish oaf.

Potter took the seat next to Daphne, who was sitting opposite Weasley, leaving the seat next to the redhead open for Draco. With an internal sigh, he sat next to the ginger-haired man. Full plates sprang up before them along the table, holding heaping piles of food—golden toast, crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, large fluffy waffles, fat sausages steaming enticingly, as well as bowls of fresh fruit scattered throughout the dishes—strawberries, raspberries, bananas, cubes of melon, grapes, blueberries, cherries. There were three different kinds of syrup, as well as a large bowl of whipped cream.

Weasley made a surprised noise of delight and began loading his plate with everything in sight. Daphne made herself a plate of fruit, avoiding everything else on the table except the tea. Potter made himself a plate but picked at his food, eating far less than Draco thought he should.

With a start, he realized he was actually worrying himself over Potter's eating habits. What was it to Draco if the man ate or not? Other than the fact that his physical strength was very much Draco's business when a killer was after the blond and Potter was possibly the only thing standing between the two. That was most likely all it was; Draco was far too worried about himself to be worried out of concern for Potter. Otherwise, the man could eat as little as he wanted to.

Looking at the spread of food, Draco felt a pang at how hard Pibby must have worked to prepare it all. The elf was painfully excited to have guests over, even if the circumstances were undesirable. How long had it been since he had had actual guests? Not Pansy or Blaise, who had all but lived there, but real visitors?

"Can we ask you about what happened last night, Daphne?" Potter's quiet voice startled everybody, Daphne worst of all. She dropped the spoon she had just lifted from her teacup and flinched at the loud  _clink_ it made as it struck the side and fell with a thud to the table, splattering several drops of brown liquid across the ivory tablecloth.

"What did you want to know?" Her voice was steady but it was barely above a whisper, as though she was afraid the killer was listening in.

"What happened?" Potter asked gently. "Tell us what you remember, and only what you want to say. If you feel like you can't talk about it anymore, you don't have to right now, that's fine."

His voice was kindness personified and Draco wanted to drown in it. He wanted Potter to turn that sound on him and shower the blond in that same tone of voice, tell Draco in that soft, deep whisper of his that everything would be okay, it would always be okay, Draco would be okay. When he listened to Potter speak like that, even if it wasn't directed at him, he felt assured, somehow. Comforted. Safe.

Daphne seemed to feel the same way because she nodded and sat up straighter, but when she spoke it was just as soft. "We were at the house," she began, staring at none of them but instead gazing off into the distance in the direction of the large fireplace. "It was only Crispin and myself." Draco wasn't sure who Crispin was but assumed it must be Triggs' first name. "Astoria and Mother had gone out, to some function that I did not feel up to attending." She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say. "And then," her voice dropped even lower, and Draco found himself leaning in to catch her words, "the house felt…odd."

"Odd?" Potter asked, same gentle tone as earlier, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that made Draco shiver. The man was dangerous.

"I'm not sure if I can explain it," she said apologetically, hesitating before continuing. "One moment, everything was normal, Crispin and I were talking, and the next everything just felt strange, as if the air was somehow…wrong."

"And then what happened?" Potter's voice was impossibly patient as if in no hurry to receive the answers Draco knew he so desperately sought.

"Then…someone was there." She took a deep breath and placed one elbow on the table, resting her forehead against the palm of her hand. "I didn't even see him," she admitted, eyes closed as she spoke to the surface of the table below her. "But I  _felt_ him, there, in the house. In the room. Crispin did, as well. He grabbed his wand and told me to run, to Apparate to the Ministry and call the other Aurors, but then…" She took another deep shuddery breath. "Then… _something_  whipped out and wrapped around his neck. One minute he was standing there telling me to run, the next he was being jerked backwards and…" she paused and sobbed brokenly. "And I don't know what it did to him, but then I was covered in Crispin's blood and something was  _laughing_ , laughing so horribly, and that's when I Apparated to the Ministry."

The sobs continued, gaining in volume. Draco knew from his experiences talking about the war with Pansy that sometimes retelling a trauma could be even harder than going through it, especially when not protected by the shock that sometimes accompanies situations like that.

"You're all right, Daphne," Potter murmured, reaching out one hand to place lightly on her shoulder. As his palm came into contact with her violet robes, she shuddered and moved suddenly, somehow winding up in Potter's lap, clutching at the front of his t-shirt and sobbing into his neck. Draco frowned. She was clearly upset, but he did not like her being comforted by Potter like that, who had moved one hand to stroke the long blond hair along her spine and placed the other against the back of her head, whispering to her that it would be all right, she was safe now, she was alive, but she sobbed even harder and shook her head.

"I'm next," she wept. "I'm next, I'm next, he'll come for me next! He killed all the others and now he's come for me!" The volume of her voice continued to rise, getting more high-pitched and hysterical. "He won't stop until I'm dead, until we're all dead!" Her breathing accelerated until she was inhaling in short gasps and clutching at Potter wildly, staring up at him with frantic eyes.

Potter murmured something, and at first, Draco thought it to be another empty comfort, but then Daphne fell silent and slumped forward, her head resting against Potter's chest as he cradled her unconscious body carefully. Weasley levitated her off of him and Draco called Pibby to take her to her rooms and lay her in the bed. The elf and the floating young woman cracked out of sight, leaving the three men in a ringing silence that her words and panic had left behind.

"I need to speak to Caelix," Potter said finally. "He was there last night, I know he inspected the room Triggs was killed in. He might have something." His voice sounded hopeful, but there was also a deep frustration to it as if he did not want to allow himself to believe an answer was awaiting him.

"Right, I'll stay here with Malfoy and Greengrass, then," Weasley nodded. "But once you get back I'll need to leave for a bit, too. I wrote Hermione this morning, but I'm not sure how long we're going to be here or anything, so I want a chance to say goodbye to her." Draco was impressed. The man had said all of that without even a hint of a blush staining his freckled features. "And I want to pick up a few things from home, too." He glanced down at himself with a disgruntled look on his face and Draco sympathized; if he had to constantly look down at that as well, he would also be upset.

"Right, yeah, I'll need to pick up a few things too, while I'm out," Potter sighed, raking a hand through his wild mane of hair. "I better go now, then." His lean body rose gracefully from the straight-backed chair. "Daphne should be out for a few hours, hopefully more sleep will help. Ron, I'll try not to be too long." Weasley waved him off and Potter turned to face Draco. "Malfoy," he said softly, "I'll let you know if there's anything new." His voice and face were so earnest and sincere that Draco could do nothing but nod in response. Then Potter strode away and was gone, and it was just Weasley and Draco left in the dining room.

"Sooo, Malfoy," came a sly voice to his right. "Fancy a game of chess?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And let the Hogwarts reunion slumber parties begin! The first of the Slytherins and Gryffindors are officially all settled into the Manor. More faces shall be along shortly.
> 
> p.s. apologies if I went a bit overboard with the literary references. There were quite a few titles and names I had to force myself to leave off—I could list poets for years without stopping, and no matter how long, the list would never be complete. And like a true addict, I am now sharing my habit with you all :) I promise it all stems from a place of love.
> 
> Til next time, my darlings!


	6. Lost Illusions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this chapter was especially hard deciding between poems! As it usually is, but still. I do so hope you like the one I've chosen. Because here it is right now!

_Oh, for the veils of my far away youth,  
__Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth,  
__Why did I stray from their shelter and grow  
__Into the sadness that follows_ — _to know!_

 _Impotent atom with desolate gaze  
__Threading the tumult of hazardous ways_ —  
_Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youth  
__Veils that hung low o'er the blaze of the truth!_

"Lost Illusions"—Georgia Douglas Johnson

* * *

 

By the time Harry left the Ministry, the morning had passed well into midafternoon. He had been gone far longer than he expected. Caelix had been there when Harry had arrived, resulting in the brunet giving him a lecture on keeping the promises he had made just the previous night, concern Caelix waved off with his usual cheerful sarcasm.

"That's why potions exist," he had told him matter-of-factly, and Harry wasn't quite sure if he was joking or not. But Caelix seemed to be fine, still slightly tired, but otherwise appearing normal.

The results had been disturbing. Daphne had been correct in her recollections—Triggs had indeed been dragged backwards by something wrapping around his windpipe. It had then slit his throat, resulting in a razor thin wound around the skin of his neck, shown in the pictures accompanying the autopsy report.

When Harry asked about the magical signature, Caelix shrugged helplessly. "There's just so fucking much, Harry," he scowled, as if angry at himself for not being able to push himself even harder at work. "It was heaviest in the areas where Triggs was killed and the fireplace that was destroyed. I've started with what was near Triggs' body, attempting to identify the spell that was used on him."

"And have you?"

"It's not a spell I recognize," he admitted, an uncharacteristic frown marring his face and tugging the violet hoop low. "The way this magic works, Harry, the way it moves and the way it's pieced together…" he paused in search of a word. "It's…bizarre. It doesn't flow in the normal way magic does if that makes sense. More like it's pointed toward something and forced to bend to the caster's will. It's fucking peculiar."

Harry could only agree. "What about the other spell the perp cast?" he wondered, peering closely at the cluttered evidence scattered across the large table.

"You mean that hideous snake thing?"

Harry nodded and Caelix looked thoughtful. "You know, I'm not sure how that spell was cast. It was like a modified Dark Mark, wasn't it?"

Harry nodded again, mouth grim as he suppressed a shudder.

"I'll look into it," Caelix said, "but I'm not sure I'll be able to find anything." Sighing heavily, he added, "I must admit that my faith in my brilliant self is slipping as of late."

Harry hastened to argue with him, assuring him that it was hardly Caelix's fault if there were simply no answers to be found at the moment. They could keep using what they had and continue to check for more clues.

They stood together in the lab and discussed the investigation for a long time, Harry forcing Caelix to give him every detail about the crime scene, as well as several examples of the fractures and holes in the magic the man had spoken about. Finally, they parted after Caelix swore to alert Harry the moment he found anything new. As Harry exited the room Caelix shouted out his normal farewell.

After he left the lab, he stopped in at the office Neville shared with two others, who had all been at the Greengrass house the previous night. He asked them questions about what the two groups had found in the home and Neville affirmed his fears that it was not much. They had found the fireplace completely obliterated just as Seaver had said, nothing but dust and debris left.

As Harry was leaving, Neville followed him out into the hallway. "How are Malfoy and Greengrass doing?" he asked quietly.

"It's sort of hard to tell with Malfoy," Harry responded wryly and Neville chuckled. "But I think he's okay, mostly. Daphne is…traumatized."

"I'm sure," said Neville quietly, nodding in agreement. "Well, look, if you need any help with anything, or if you just want someone else there watching them with you and Ron, just let me know, all right?"

Harry stared at him in surprise. He wasn't sure why he was so astonished to continue learning that his friends had matured since Hogwarts and were willing to put schoolyard rivalries aside; although, it did seem rather petty to continue to hold onto something as meaningless as an adolescent enemy in the face of all the recent death and bloodshed. "Sure, Neville," Harry said, smiling. "Thanks."

"Course," he grinned and clapped Harry on the back. As he walked away, head held high and back straight, Harry shook his head in amazement at the vast differences between the man Neville had become and the timid boy he had started out as.

Checking the time and scowling, Harry hurried to a Floo, heading to Grimmauld Place to pick up any items he may need for an extended stay at the Manor. For some reason, Harry was looking forward to staying there. Maybe it had to do with the fact that there would now be people around and he wouldn't be coming home to an empty house every night, especially one as dreary as Number 12.

Shoving everything into a large rucksack, he let Kreacher know where he would be and promised to call the elf if he needed anything. He wasn't sure if the Manor's wards would allow him to Floo straight there, but he decided he may as well try before attempting the trek from the drive to the front porch that accompanied Apparition. Tossing a handful of glittering powder into the flames, he stepped through and called out for Malfoy Manor.

To his surprise, the flames spat him out onto a large hearth dwarfed beneath an enormous fireplace. The fireplace was carved entirely out of bone-white marble, stretching upward into pillars and smooth columns. It was tall enough to stand in comfortably and wide enough to fit several people in at once. The mantle was an enormous slab of stone stretched above Harry's head, holding several more identical marble pillars that stretched all the way up to the ceiling. The room was paneled in dark wood, with several paintings of ancestors blinking disdainfully down on him from the walls. A long table was spread before the empty fireplace with a number of straight-backed chairs lining the sides. Dangling directly over the center of the table was a large chandelier. Glancing upward, Harry could see patterns and designs carved into the high ceiling stretched what seemed like miles above his head. The floor was a dark wood, nearly black, and Harry suddenly realized with a jolt of fear what room he had ended up in. The only other room in the Manor he had been in before two weeks ago—he was in the drawing room.

Harry felt the air freeze in his lungs—he was standing in the very same room that Hermione had been tortured in, the exact same room that Dobby had been stabbed in. It was the same room Harry had wrestled Malfoy's wand away from him in, the same wand he had never returned. He still had it in a drawer in Grimmauld Place somewhere, collecting dust, discarded and forgotten.

Harry needed to get out. He needed to leave; it felt as if the room didn't have enough oxygen, as if the painful memories had greedily sucked up all of the air. He could feel a steady pounding behind his scar, like Voldemort was trying to break into his mind again. He could hear Hermione's screams, Bellatrix's mad laughter, and the sounds Pettigrew had made as he had died, fingers closing around his own throat, the breath and life squeezed from his body right in front of Harry's eyes. His mind would not stop replaying the sight of Peter's body, twitching grotesquely and flailing around uselessly as his hand closed tighter and tighter around his own neck, the way his eyes had bugged from his head and his tongue had lolled out of his mouth, making tiny choked noises…He could hear Ron's terror as the redhead ran around the dungeon screaming for Hermione, could taste the same bile and fear that had risen in Harry's throat as he saw it all unfolding before him. He could smell the sour, nauseating stench Bellatrix had given off, the foul smell of her breath as she screamed in his face. There was the cloying fetor of blood in his nostrils, drowning out all his other senses. His body felt strange and tingly, limbs stiff and uncooperative. Every breath seemed to be a struggle. Were his lungs working? Had they forgotten how? Why wasn't he getting enough air? Were the frantic fingers of his panic gulping the oxygen before he had a chance to breathe it? Was that what was snatching the air straight from his lungs?

Desperate to leave the room, Harry scanned the walls with increasing alarm for a way out. But as he whirled around, he wasn't sure which exit would lead where. There were three doorways he could see, as well as a marble staircase in one corner.

Before he could make a panicked decision, one of the sets of doors was flung wide and Malfoy strolled in.

"Oh, Potter, it is you," he said casually. "Pibby mentioned somebody came through the Floo…fuck, Potter, are you all right?" His tone changed as he neared, the relaxed tone instantly morphing into worry.

Without hesitation, he reached out to Harry, gripping him tightly as he began to lead him from the room, casting dark looks around the place as if it had housed evil and forced up repressed memories on purpose. He led Harry through a different doorway into a smaller room with pale yellow walls and white furniture. Still gripping the Auror's arm tightly, he maneuvered him onto a rather stiff couch and sank down beside him.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he apologized, releasing his grip on Harry's arm to rub his back soothingly. His voice was weighted with a sincerity Harry would never have expected from the man. "I should have realized where the Floo would take you, I didn't think, Harry, I'm sorry." The feel of Malfoy's hand smoothing calming circles into his back began to help; Harry could feel the heavy knot blocking his windpipe, thick and chalky where it sat, finally start to loosen and crumble. "Just breathe, Harry," Malfoy murmured. "It's okay, you're fine, just breathe."

Harry wanted to argue that the strange sensation of being comforted by Draco Malfoy was probably further contributing to his inability to draw regular breath, but he was still unable to form words and Malfoy's touch really was making him feel better. Finally, the panic ebbed enough for him to inhale normally and he was able to speak.

"Sorry," he said weakly, dragging shaky fingers through his hair in embarrassment. "It just caught me off guard, you know?" He placed his elbows on his knees and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, leaning his face wearily against his palms. "Mostly I've dealt with all the shit from then, but sometimes, something like that just sneaks up on me." He glanced away from Malfoy, sure that the blond would pounce on the weakness and mock him the same way he had done for years. But the man surprised him yet again.

"I still have nightmares," Malfoy confessed, voice low. "Sometimes I wake in a panic, thinking I can hear someone attempting to break into my bedroom. Some of them would try, you know, late at night. Greyback, especially. Pibby used to Apparate me out of my room sometimes to hide me in one of the stables if one of them got too close to breaking in." He shuddered but continued speaking. "That was when Mother put the wards on the bedrooms, but that didn't do much to stop some of them from trying."

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. He had never really thought about it before, what it must have been like to live in the house with the Death Eaters. Every time he thought about Voldemort and his followers staying there, he had mostly just focused on the Voldemort part of it. But there had been so many Death Eaters staying with them as well, and many, like Malfoy's aunt, who were just as mad and dangerous as Voldemort, and of course Malfoy would have had more day-to-day contact with them.

"Even after they were gone, after the war was over and my father was taken away forever, I still felt it," Malfoy continued, speaking in a faraway voice and staring at the distant wall. "I could still feel their presence, creeping through the hallways, the memory of the Dark Lord infecting the rooms, slithering under the doorframes as if it were following me. If it hadn't been for Pansy…" his voice trailed off and there was silence for nearly a full minute before Malfoy seemed to snap back into himself.

"How are you feeling?" he asked Harry suddenly, grey eyes sharp and clear, studying him intently. Harry offered him a weak approximation of a smile in response. "I will shut down that Floo immediately and close the entire drawing room." Fingers continued to stroke Harry's robed back and he realized that Malfoy's hand had never stopped its caress.

"It's all right, Malfoy," said Harry, shaking his head slowly. He felt lightheaded. After the war, he had had so many nightmares and anxiety attacks—from the memories, the articles, the attention, the mobs—that he became used to it. But he hadn't had an attack in long enough that he had somewhat forgotten how draining they could be. "Like I said, it just surprised me, is all. I just wasn't expecting it."

"How could you not, though?" Malfoy's voice sounded slightly frustrated, as if this was something that had been bothering him for quite some time. "How can you even be in this house after everything? How can you  _sleep_  here after everything?"

"You do," Harry reminded him softly. "And I can tell that my experiences in this house were nothing compared to what you went through here. Ron and I are fine, Malfoy, trust me," he assured, feeling on much better footing when back in the role of the comforter as opposed to the one being comforted.

"Is it odd that I do?" the blond asked, eyes glittering. "Trust you, I mean. Is that strange?"

Harry wanted to laugh at the contemplative look on Malfoy's face, appearing as though he was calculating just how strange it really was and coming up with an actual number. "Not so much," he disagreed. "I'm sleeping in your house, so that must mean I trust you, too." He paused as his lips twitched. "Actually, maybe that makes this even more strange." The comment drew a soft chuckle from the blond. Harry had never noticed before how nice of a laugh Malfoy had; it wasn't very often that he heard the sound from the other man. But when not polluted with hatred or scorn, it was pleasant to listen to.

"What would our teenage selves of five years ago have said?" Malfoy mused, shifting his weight a fraction closer.

"I highly doubt we'd have believed us." Harry could only imagine what his sixteen-year-old self would have said to someone telling him that one day he and Malfoy would be comforting each other over the war in a sitting room of Malfoy Manor.

"Yes, trust was one of the furthest emotions I felt toward you at that time," said Malfoy with a grin, but there was something forced about his smile, and Harry had to fight the strange urge to wrap his arm around the man and coax the blond head onto Harry's shoulder.

"I'm sorry I didn't see," Harry spoke quietly, staring Malfoy directly in his grey eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't help."

"It's hardly your fault, Potter," Draco told him in a slightly amused voice. "It's okay to stop playing the Saviour sometimes, you know." His voice turned warm. "You could hardly see what I didn't want anybody to notice, could you?"

Despite the kind tone, Harry refused to allow himself to be reassured by the words. "But I knew  _something_ was happening, I should have…paid more attention or tried talking to you about it, maybe."

"Really?" Malfoy definitely sounded amused now. "And how do you imagine that conversation would have gone?"

Harry spent several moments imagining different scenarios in which he confronted Malfoy. None of them played out well. "All right, maybe that wouldn't have worked," he allowed grudgingly, lips twitching.

"There's no use trying to reimagine the past," Malfoy said, leaning forward to fix Harry with a steely gaze. "There's no use blaming yourself for what happened, either. We all did the best we could with the tools we were given. I was raised to be my father's son, Harry."

At his words, the Auror studied the blond for any trace of Lucius, and despite the similarity in their appearances, he just couldn't see it. Not with the way Malfoy had been speaking and treating him—warm, comforting, kind. Not when Harry had seen him reading Muggle poetry and looking moved by the words. Not when he said things like, "Beauty is beauty, no matter the source".

And certainly not when he was looking at Harry like that, so open and sincere as he continued speaking. "And you were raised to be Dumbledore's soldier: the world's own paragon of benevolence and justice, fighting for equality and freedom and love and all that." There was a smirk pulling one corner of his mouth up, but it looked sad for some reason. "We both had our parts to play in the grand scheme."

"Well, I'm sorry for the part you had to play," Harry said quietly.

"I'm sorry for the part you had to play, as well." Malfoy's voice was just as soft and Harry suddenly realized how close they were sitting. Malfoy's hand was still on his back, barely stroking, just resting there, his left arm a comfortable weight on Harry. His other hand was sitting lightly on Harry's right forearm, curled gently around the robed limb. Harry hadn't sat this closely to anyone since Ginny had left. He had arrested criminals and comforted numerous people, held countless injured in his arms in his line of work, but this was different. Malfoy was touching Harry to comfort  _Harry_ , not out of some sick desire to touch the Chosen One or because Harry was rescuing them. If felt as if Malfoy was  _holding_  Harry, which was something he was quite sure nobody had ever done before.

Where were the feelings of wrong that he would have expected to accompany the blond's touch? But Malfoy was so different now, how could Harry respond to him any other way but differently? He even looked different, which Harry admitted made sense, seeing as three years had passed and the last time he had seen the man was at his trials, gaunt and afraid. But Harry would not recognize that version of Malfoy anymore.

His hair now fell in silky curtains around his head, much longer than Harry had ever seen him wear it. Perhaps his hair length, like the Muggle books, was also a delayed rebellion against Lucius. It was definitely different from how he used to always have it. Instead of the slicked back helmet he used to constantly wear it in, it now hung loose and soft, flowing to cover his forehead and golden eyebrows, as well as concealing both ears entirely. It tickled the length of his neck, tips brushing past the tops of his shoulders. Staring at it left Harry with the unexplainable urge to bury his hands in the sleek strands and lean forward to see what it smelled like, which struck him as extraordinarily odd. He wasn't sure he could recall ever wanting to  _sniff_ anybody's hair before. He wasn't even sure if he could remember what Ginny's hair smelt like and wasn't really sure what that meant and decided it was too strange to think about Ginny when he was currently studying Malfoy.

It was like he was seeing him for the first time. Never before had he noticed just how high or angular the blond's cheekbones were. Had his features always been so aristocratic? They had once been sharp and pointed, Harry remembered that. When had the edges softened? When had the arrogant, craven boy Harry had once known transformed into the man sitting before him and just how deep did the changes go?

The most startling thing of all was Harry's desire to find out. He wanted to know just how different Malfoy was—hell, maybe he just wanted to know Draco Malfoy. Stranger things had happened, surely. And the way he was staring at Harry made the brunet think that maybe Malfoy wanted to get to know him just as much.

They had been sitting in silence, staring at each other in a strange combination of warmth, wariness, and surprise, perhaps at both finding themselves in that situation. Malfoy's arm was completely still where it lay draped over Harry's back, fingers resting between his shoulder blades. The quiet had been unnoticeable at first; comfortable, even, but it began to slowly build into a ferocious itch, begging for Harry to scratch it with words. But the Auror had no clue what to say. He wasn't even sure what it was that was happening, or how exactly things had led to this…whatever it was.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, Harry couldn't decide—the need to begin spouting whatever came to mind vanished with the arrival of Ron suddenly entering the sitting room through a different doorway than the one they had come through, the one that led to the drawing room.

"Oi, mate, how long have you been back?" Ron asked, shaking both men from their stupor and drawing their attention. They both jumped and Malfoy quickly snatched back the arm still lying atop Harry's back, as well as the hand on his forearm, both of which felt cold without the warm weight pressing into him.

"Erm," Harry shook his head to clear it. "Not too long, sorry, I was gonna come find you," he said, glancing around sheepishly. "I didn't mean to be gone so long."

"Yeah, it's fine," Ron said dismissively, grinning. "Gave me all that time to kick Malfoy's arse in chess."

"Excuse me," Malfoy turned to pin him with a glare. "You were not undefeated, need I remind you."

"True enough, but my numerous victories still count as an arse kicking, mate, sorry," he sniggered, swinging his long arms back and forth by his sides.

"So I should go, then," Ron continued, and for a wild moment, Harry believed that he was removing himself from the room after sensing the  _whatever_ there was happening between Malfoy and himself and wanted to leave them alone once again. But he continued speaking and it suddenly made more sense to Harry. "I'll have time to go to the flat and pick up my things, then stop by Hermione's work to say goodbye. Knowing her, she'll take advantage of my absence by moving a bed and all her belongings into her office. Lord knows she would love an excuse to keep working." He rolled his eyes with a snort. "So, Malfoy, where's the nearest Floo, then?"

Harry and Malfoy glanced at each other before looking away. "The fireplace just there is fine," Malfoy gestured toward the wall opposite them, where a large stone fireplace sat. "That is where all the incoming Floo calls shall be directed."

"Right, then," Ron nodded, marching across the room to the bowl of powder on the mantle. "I'll be back soon. If you get bored, Harry, he's bloody easy to tromp in chess." Ron's laughter faded away as he spun out of sight.

"He wasn't fucking undefeated!" Malfoy fumed, glaring at the fireplace. "Merlin, he beats one giant Transfigured chess set of McGonagall's and checkmated me  _maybe_ a couple more times than I did him and he thinks he fucking invented the game or something!" He crossed his arms and pressed his lips together, shooting angry looks at the fireplace, and Harry wanted to laugh at what was possibly the most adorable temper tantrum he had ever witnessed. And it was over  _chess_ , no less.

"I've never beat him in chess," he admitted, ribs aching from the effort of keeping peals of amusement locked firmly in his throat at the sight of the pout on Malfoy's pale lips.

"Well, that hardly surprises me, Potter," said Malfoy, rolling his eyes. "You've never been much of a strategist now, have you? You are a Gryffindor to your very core, doing your House namesake proud by rushing headfirst into every situation you encounter and hacking away at it with determination and blind luck until it's defeated and you're exhausted and then you wonder why you suffer."

Harry's only response to the speech was to raise both eyebrows at the blond, who turned slightly pink but added in a sulky tone, "I'm fucking good at chess."

"Course you are, sunshine," Harry teased, unable to hide the wide grin stretching across his face at the sight of Malfoy's scowl.

"Potter," he warned, but Harry ignored him. He had never been afraid of Draco Malfoy before, and now that he had seen the man read poetry and call Harry by his given name while smiling so openly, he certainly was not about to start.

"Yes, sunshine?" he asked politely, unsure of where this playful mood had sprung from.

"You are still such a fucking wanker sometimes," Malfoy grumbled, but Harry thought he saw the blond's lips twitch.

"Only for you," Harry assured.

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment Pibby cracked into the room, startling them both.

"Master Draco, sir, Miss Daphne Greengrass is being awake, sir, and is leaving her rooms now," squeaked the elf.

Even though the elf had been addressing Malfoy, Harry nodded firmly. "I should go check on her, make sure she doesn't think she's been left on her own or anything." Rising from the couch, he strode across the floor but paused in the same doorway Ron had entered through. Twisting his upper body back around, he stared at Malfoy for a moment before smiling, just the tiniest curl of the corners of his mouth. "And thanks," he added softly. "For earlier. You didn't have to be so kind. I appreciate it."

And before the stunned blond could respond, Harry was gone.

 

oOo

 

The empty doorway seemed to mock Draco as he stared at it in growing frustration. Why did Daphne have to leave her rooms  _now_? Why did Weasley have to burst in when he did? Why did Pibby interrupt them? Why did the universe hate Draco? There had been something, unnamable, perhaps, but  _something_  had been there, between them, on that couch with them, looming behind every word. Draco certainly hadn't been expecting it, considering the reason they had been in the room in the first place, or the subject matter that followed Potter's panic attack, something Draco still felt guilty about. He should have realized that the Floo would take the man to the drawing room. After he had left in the morning, Weasley had asked the blond to adjust the Manor's Floos to allow for the two Aurors to floo straight to their separate homes, but Draco had not even thought about what would happen when they flooed back.

Maybe he hadn't been expecting Potter to have so human a reaction to trauma. The way everybody spoke about the man—the adoring fans, the general public, and not least of all the fucking  _Prophet_ —it made it sound as if he was invincible, superhuman, had no weaknesses. Turned out he was just as mortal as the rest of them, as Draco. It made Draco feel better to think of Potter as just as fallible as the rest of the world; it made him more touchable, somehow, in a way he had not appeared before. But that still didn't change the fact that, human or savior, he was far too good for Draco—a fact that Draco did not like.

He wanted Potter. He could still feel the warmth of the other man pressed into his side as he allowed the contact, something that had surprised Draco at first but now gave him hope. Potter hadn't thrown off his touch the way Draco feared he was going to at first. Before he left he had even thanked Draco for being so kind, something the blond was quite sure he had never been thanked for in his entire life.

It had been a rather fortunate thing that Pibby had popped up when he had, for if it had been any longer, Draco would surely have done something monumentally stupid, like kiss the man, or confess his growing attraction or something else as equally mortifying. Even though Potter had allowed Draco to touch him in concern, he had no idea what the man's response would be if Draco kissed him. He did not even know Potter's orientation, for Merlin's fucking sake! Or have any clear answers on his relationship with the mysterious Caelix, although Weasley had made several jokes about them throughout the day and Draco was not sure what to make of it. Surely the Daily Prophet would have noticed if the Chosen One was dating someone new—especially if that someone was male.

Sighing, Draco rose from the couch and made his way from the room. For now, he would attempt to put the Potter situation from his mind, despite the fact that the man was going to be sleeping just one door over from his own for the indeterminable future. It would do no good to dwell or pine, and regardless, Potter was in his home as an Auror, not a visitor. Draco needed to remember that.

Not quite sure where they had gone to, he wandered up to the second floor, taking the time to adjust the Floos and command Pibby to seal off the drawing room immediately, as he should have done the moment he learned the two Gryffindors would be staying at the Manor.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced around, seeing neither Daphne nor Potter. Where had they gone to? One of their rooms, perhaps? Draco did not like the thought of the two of them being alone in a room together, especially one that had a bed. Or a couch. Or a floor.

Taking a deep breath, he placed one palm flat against the nearest wall, focusing his magic on the house and performing a useful spell that had been passed down through the generations of his family. He felt his magic connect and merge with the magic of the house and he could  _feel_  the building. He could feel Pibby's location like a tiny blue spark, dutifully sealing off the drawing room on the lower level. There was a yellow spark the color of saffron that Draco could easily guess was Daphne, next to an emerald spark that Draco knew without a doubt belonged to Potter.

As he cancelled the spell and withdrew his magic, hurrying down the hall toward the sparks, he was surprised by their location. Why had Potter chosen the music room?

When he entered the room, he spotted them immediately, sitting on a cream-colored settee together. The room was not as spacious as the others, but the multiple gilded mirrors hanging from the walls afforded it a larger feel. The walls themselves were the delicate color of clouds, wrapping around the room in the lightest shade of grey. The drapes pulled back from the windows were long and flint-colored, gently sweeping the top of the indigo carpet. A beautiful white piano edged in gold sat in the corner, near a collection of chairs and the settee Potter and Daphne were both sitting on.

As Draco neared, they both glanced up. Daphne's eyes were slightly puffy and ringed by dark circles, giving her a somewhat haunted appearance, but they were dry and she no longer looked to be on the verge of panic. Potter had been speaking to her in low tones but fell silent as Draco approached.

Ignoring the man for the moment, he addressed his words to Daphne. "How are you feeling, Daphne?" he asked politely.

"Better," she replied, glancing toward Potter and smiling a tiny smile, earning a smile from Potter in return.

At the sight of the exchange, Draco felt his stomach tighten but forced his words to remain courteous. "I'm glad. If you need anything at all, just let me know." His mother would be proud of his ability to hold an even tone.

"Thank you, Draco," she responded, glancing at Potter once again out of the corner of her eye.

Frowning, Draco turned away. He did not like her staring at Potter like that. It was not as if the man had saved her himself. It was not as if it was anything  _personal_. He was an Auror and just doing his job. The silly girl would do well to remember that.

With a hot pang of guilt and shame, Draco remembered the fear that had been so evident in her voice that same morning, when she had been describing what had happened, watching that Auror assigned to protect her die right in front of her, knowing that she was the real intended target…

He shivered as he realized that he was in the same situation. There was still the shining arrow above his head, pointing down toward him in a flashing target, drawing the danger ever closer, like a sociopathic moth drawn to Slytherin-colored flames.

"I assure you," Draco began, his mouth opening to speak before he even knew what he intended to say, "that the Manor is extremely well-protected. You're safe here."

At his words, her eyes flicked around the room uneasily as though she disagreed, and Draco wasn't sure if it was to do with the Manor itself or if she simply no longer felt safe anywhere.

"Why did you pick the music room, by the way?" Draco had been curious the entire time and was unable to hold the question in any longer.

"I like this room," Daphne answered, the corners of her lips turning up as she gazed around. "I remember it from when we were small children."

"You two have known each other for that long?" Potter blurted, staring between the two blondes as if unable to comprehend having had anyone in his life for a similarly lengthy amount of time.

Draco's mouth couldn't help but flip up into a tiny smile at the man. "Most of the old families are acquainted, Potter."

Turning to face the Auror fully, Daphne spoke before he could reply. "Yes, our parents traveled in similar social circles." There was the slightest emphasis on the  _ed_ part of  _traveled_ , the fact that his parents no longer belonged to those circles hanging heavy in the air between them.

Draco fixed her with a frosty smile. "Yes, it led to almost all of the Slytherins befriending each other well before Hogwarts." The implication that Daphne was not one of those Slytherins lurked just beneath the mild tone.

Glancing back toward Potter, Draco was surprised to find a somber expression on his face, a small sadness lurking in the depths of his green eyes. His gaze flicked between the two Slytherins for a moment before Potter turned the intense green stare on Draco, looking torn as if wanting to comfort him and yet fearful of how it would be received in front of Daphne.

Or maybe Draco was reading too much into the man.

"This room really is beautiful," said Potter softly, possibly wanting to change the subject to avoid his potential recent dilemma. "Is the piano yours?" He nodded his shaggy hair in the direction of the grand piano, bathed in the light of the large enchanted windows depicting a sunny field, purple stalks of lilac stretching across gently rolling hills somewhere in the south of France.

The sight of both the piano and the field made Draco think of his mother and left him with a dull ache in his chest. "It was my mother's," he answered quietly, turning from the instrument as though the very sight caused him pain. He reminded himself that it had been years since he had heard her play; it was not as if the sound of her music had suddenly just disappeared with her presence—a presence Draco missed terribly.

"I've always wanted to play," Potter sighed, surprising the blond. Potter wanted to play an instrument? A classical instrument? It made Draco feel better to be reminded that there were still some things that Potter was unable to do. The prat wasn't nearly as bloody perfect as the papers liked to make him out to be.

But as the word  _prat_  tumbled through his mind, Draco knew the word no longer fit the man. That word had described Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Torment-Draco, the skinny git with the baggy clothes and ridiculous glasses; the same one who had snubbed him on the train when they were children and, through his mere existence alone, won the unfair and instantaneous favor of the headmaster and every single professor in the school (with the glaring exception of Severus), tricking his way onto the Quidditch team and never missing the opportunity to publicly humiliate Draco.

The Potter that sat before him was so very different from the scrawny brat of his adolescence that it was nearly difficult to recognize him at times. It was if someone had flipped the rusty front of a Sickle over to reveal the face of a shining Galleon on the other side. Potter was not whom Draco had thought him to be. He now held himself confidently, spoke with quiet authority, commanded the attention of every person in the room without even trying.

There was a demeanor of calm surrounding the man, radiating from him, yet it crackled with something akin to danger, filling the air around the brunet, the taste sharp and metallic on Draco's tongue, making his pulse race and giving him the urge to draw closer. There was something so intriguing about the man, a darkness to him that drew Draco in, even in spite of the smiles and laughter the blond was able to coax from him on occasion. A single look at Potter and one knew he was able to handle himself in any sort of threatening situation.

For the first time, Draco looked at him and truly saw the man who had defeated the Dark Lord. The thought made him shiver, but not in an unpleasant way.

It wasn't until Daphne coughed quietly that he realized that he had been staring at Potter. And that Potter had noticed and was now staring back, one eyebrow barely lifted in inquiry. Cursing the flush that Draco could feel spreading through his cheeks, he avoided looking at the other two where they sat on the narrow settee together.

The silence lengthened and stretched, and just when Draco thought he would surely break apart into tiny frustrated pieces from the strain of it all, a loud noise cracked through the air like a whip, making him jump and worry for one wild moment that he really had shattered himself into minuscule porcelain shards—albeit lovely ones—until he looked down at himself and saw that his body was whole and unbroken.

As he glanced around the room for the source of the noise, he spotted Pibby immediately and wanted to slap a palm to his forehead for not having realized sooner what the sound had been.  _Honestly,_ he scoffed internally,  _what the fuck else would it have been?_  Thankfully he was distracted from his wandering thoughts by Pibby's high-pitched squeak.

"Master Draco!" he exclaimed. "Pibby is answering a Floo call for Miss Daphne, sir."

"It must be Mother," she murmured, rising from her seat and smiling prettily at Potter. "I'll take it in my room and be back shortly." Potter returned her smile as she swept gracefully through the open doorway, drifting behind the elf with nimble steps. The heavy coal-colored door clicked shut behind her, drawing attention to the loud silence left in its wake.

Draco kept his eyes fixed firmly on the wall, not allowing himself to look at Potter. Every time he glanced at the man, he was doing or saying something to surprise Draco and throw him even more off balance, something his next words proved beyond any shadow of a doubt.

"So, do you play?"

 _Do you play?_ Does Draco play what? Turning his stare from the wall and breaking his own rule set in place not even two minutes ago, he turned to look at Potter. "Play?" he echoed questioningly.

Potter nodded toward the piano in the same shaggy-haired gesture as earlier.

"Somewhat," Draco admitted cautiously. Why did Potter want to know? Was he perhaps  _interested_  in the blond's life? "Mother taught me, but it's been years since I've played." The piano had been silent for so long, the entire room shrouded in a drab veil of depressed quiet in the absence of the music.

Draco remembered when he had been a child, all the beautiful sounds that had once poured from the room, listening to his mother's lissome fingers flow over the ivory keys from his position on the floor at her feet as he stared up at her in awe. He remembered the desire to get closer to the piano, as close as possible to soak up the breathtaking notes drifting from its wooden body. He had begged her to teach him, desperate to be able to produce the same entrancing sounds, something she undertook with delight.

For a time, it had been wonderful. It had been just the two of them, alone together in the cozy room. He could still remember the feel of her hands, gently placing his own in the correct positions, pressing his fingers down against the keys lightly, explaining how to read music and what the differently shaded notes all meant.

With perfect recollection, he could smell the comforting aroma of her perfume, the familiar scent of cherry blossoms and vanilla surrounding him as it had as a child when she sat next to him on the bench and smiled that secret, private smile that she saved just for him. The one Draco had never seen directed at his father —it was for Draco alone.

But then Lucius had found out about the lessons. He began attending the piano instructions, intent on Draco achieving absolute perfection in any endeavor he sought. He would pace the floor before the piano, instructing Draco in a cold, distant voice, demanding Draco play a measure again and again until it was perfect. In between the taut lines of disapproval tugging at his mouth and the icy command that Draco  _play it again_ , he lectured the boy on what it meant to be a Malfoy, how anything less than perfection was unacceptable; musical talent takes dedication and fierce concentration, something he was determined his son would have. Every time Draco had approached the music room, he had felt a hot coil of dread tighten in his chest at the sight of the coal-colored door.

The painful lessons—which at that point had twisted into more of a lectured shaming of Draco, Lucius outlining all the ways in which his son was a failure in everything for having been unable so far to master the piano to his father's satisfaction—were fortunately (or unfortunately, really, as it turned out) put on hold by the ascent of the Dark Lord at the end of Draco's fourth year.

After that, he had rarely seen his father, the man vanishing for long periods of time with no explanation of where he had been, and Draco would never dream to dare question him. Then he had been thrown into Azkaban at the end of fifth year, thanks to the very man sitting before him at that moment, and Draco had not had to see his father again until his breakout with the other Death Eaters.

Every memory for the longest time following that had been dark and painful, full of hushed sobs late at night and staring at himself dead-eyed in the mirror, wondering if  _Avada Kedavra_ would be more preferable to the hell his life had become. There had certainly been times he had wished for death, wished the Dark Lord or one of the Death Eaters who had delighted in using him as curse practice would finally follow it with the killing curse. The one Dark spell that Draco could remember not having ever been used on him, and the one that he had nearly prayed for at times.

But the prayers had gone unanswered and here he was years later, sitting in the old music room of his empty Manor, the piano silent and his mother gone, with the gorgeous muscle-wrapped version of his childhood nemesis sitting so near and staring at him in a way that Draco was not able to read. Was the twisting expression concern? Impatience? Caution? Pity? Draco had no answers anymore.

"Can you play something for me?"

Draco wasn't sure if the question had been asked only once or if the other man had had to repeat it, but he nodded jerkily. Taking a deep breath, he rose from his seat and crossed the short distance to the piano, sinking onto the bench and running his fingers along the lid before flipping it up to reveal the ivory keys gleaming brightly up at him. They were cold as he placed his hands in the proper position and closed his eyes. Merlin, it had been years.

For a moment he was worried that nothing would happen, that his fingers would refuse to move, or that his brain had repressed the memory of all the music he had been forced to practice over and over, for hours at a time under the disappointed glare of his father. But the next moment his hands were working again and the noises coming from the piano were definitely music. His subconscious had picked the song that had been his mother's favorite. He could still see her smiling softly down at him as he begged her to play it for him just one more time, and just once more after that. The melody was slow, graceful, complex. There was a haunted beauty to it that had always given Draco shivers, making his heart ache in his chest for reasons he was never sure of.

As the song continued, the melody increased and the notes became higher. His eyes remained closed as his fingers flowed without halt, recalling the notes perfectly from the endless hours of practice his father had forced upon him until finally, Draco had lost all love for the instrument. His mother had stopped playing even before Draco had been allowed to give it up, and though he had still continued to play, the piano had begun to sound flat and tinny to his ears. The beauty and intrigue that the music had once held for him had slowly vanished until he had detested every moment he had been forced to sit on the bench and plunk out mechanical rhythms on the hated keys.

But that loathing had dissipated long ago, leaving nothing but a dull ache behind in its place.

The song started to lose speed as it began to wind to an end, his fingers drifting slower and slower until with the last melancholy measure it gently faded away, the final note hanging in the air long after Draco stopped being able to hear it.

With a sigh, he finally opened his eyes, only to jump in surprise. Potter had left the settee and wandered to the piano, standing so close to Draco that the blond's first reaction was anger at himself for not having heard the Auror approach, even if he had been playing a loud instrument at the time. But the way Potter was staring at him was making it difficult to focus on that self-directed anger—or anything at all, really, for that matter.

One crimson-robed arm rested lightly against the piano, barely leaning atop the wood as Potter stared directly into Draco's eyes. The man's gaze was more intense than Draco could ever remember it being, the bright green surrounding his pupils deep and captivating, and Draco found himself unable to look away.

"That was beautiful," Potter murmured, leaning closer to Draco. Their faces were only inches apart and Draco was having trouble swallowing. The room felt much warmer than it had before he had sat at the piano.

"It was my mother's favorite," he replied, wondering the instant the words left his mouth why he would tell Potter such a thing.

Potter smiled and glanced down at the keys before looking up into Draco's eyes again. "You haven't stopped surprising me this entire time," he confessed, looking pleased by the words. "Is there any part of the boy I used to know and hate still inside?"

The automatic response for Draco was to bristle in defense at the reminder of their old animosity, but he smothered the urge as he reminded himself that he had been thinking nearly word-for-word the same question only minutes earlier. But the honest answer was, he didn't know. He did not know what parts of him had survived the war and what parts had not made it out intact. He did not know who he was anymore. But something about Potter made him want to figure it out.

"I'm not sure," he said in a low voice. "Perhaps we'll have to find out together, hmm?"

The smile on Potter's face grew wider as if he would like nothing more than to solve the mystery of the blond side-by-side with the man himself. And Draco had to admit, Potter's side was looking more and more appealing.

Unable to help himself, Draco leaned forward and noticed, for just the tiniest of seconds, the way Potter's gaze fell to his lips before snapping back up. A surge of  _something_ passed through Draco at the sight, whether it was hope, desire, tenderness, lust, maybe just a need to distract himself from the current horrors plaguing him, he wasn't sure, but he knew without a doubt in that moment that he wanted Potter. He wanted Potter's mouth on his, his hands on his skin, his voice crying out Draco's name; he wanted to see the green eyes staring up at him from his position on his knees before the blond, as well as the reverse. Draco knew if there was a chance for him to get on his knees for the Chosen One, he would not hesitate.

In fact, dropping to his knees right then and tugging open the fastenings to the other man's jeans sounded like an utterly brilliant idea to Draco, but he squashed it down before it could happen. Potter, no matter how he was looking at Draco, would most likely not take too kindly to an ex-Death Eater struggling to wrest his clothing from his body in attempts to molest him. It was hardly the way to earn the man's trust and friendship.

But Draco wanted both. He wanted them so badly he could nearly taste the desire.

Potter opened his mouth to say something, something cutting, maybe, or else possibly profound, Draco never got the chance to find out. Because at that moment, Pibby cracked back into the room and Draco wanted to scream in frustration. Why did the universe continue to block him at every turn? Why was it so intent on fucking with him? But the next words out of Pibby's mouth silenced any other thought or protest that had been trampling through his mind.

"Master Draco," the elf announced. "Mister Blaise Zabini is here to be seeing you, sir."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand the end of that chapter marks the arrival of yet another Slytherin to join the inter-House slumber party that the gang seems to have found themselves a part of. Good thing everyone's having so much fun, right?
> 
> Now for the important question: How much drama does Blaise Zabini plan on causing? If the context of any of the earlier mentions of him were any sort of clue, the answer is quite a fucking bit.
> 
> And on that ominous note, I leave you on the edge of the cliff known as The Arrival of Blaise Zabini: the Narcisstic Cheating Ex-Lover.
> 
> Ciao, darlings!


	7. No Time to Hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at the bottom of the aforementioned cliff, I give you Blaise Zabini in all his smug glory...

_I had no time to Hate_ —  
_Because  
__The Grave would hinder Me_ —  
_And Life was not so  
Ample I  
__Could finish_ — _E_ _nmity_ —

 _Nor had I time to Love_ —  
_But since  
__Some Industry must be_ —  
_The little Toil of Love_ —  
_I thought  
__Be large enough for Me_ —

"No Time to Hate"—Emily Dickinson

 

* * *

 

At the elf's words, Malfoy's jaw tightened and Harry wondered for possibly the hundredth time what exactly it was that had caused the rift between the blond and Zabini. Malfoy had said next to nothing on the nature of their relationship, something Harry couldn't help but wonder about, and he wasn't exactly sure why he cared so much.

 _Professional curiosity?_ he wondered, deciding it must be that. Although, there was something about Malfoy that made Harry want to know all of his secrets, discover all of the surprising hidden facets of this newfound personality the blond had assumed in the years between the men knowing one another.

"Thank you, Pibby," Malfoy responded stiffly as he rose gracefully from the white bench, his movements a stark contrast to the rigidity of his voice.

Harry wasn't sure if he should follow Malfoy or wait for the blond to speak to Zabini alone first, but Malfoy turned and raised an eyebrow at him as if in either invitation or inquiry, Harry wasn't sure, but he stepped away from the piano and followed Malfoy from the room.

The walk downstairs was silent and felt slightly strained. The pale face striding next to him was a blank mask, but his shoulders seemed tense and Harry wondered how long it had been since the two Slytherins had seen each other. He longed to ask, to break the silence with words, but he knew better than to question Malfoy at that moment.

Finally they stopped outside of a set of large double doors, already thrown wide for them as they strolled into a room that Harry suspected to be a lounge. It was spacious and comfortable looking, decorated in light colors. The ceiling high above their heads was the shade of honeyed cinnamon, set against dark, heavy-looking beams of wood inlaid over the room, peering down on the rose-hued carpet and copper-colored furniture. The windows were tall and enchanted, showing them a view of a soft meadow that Harry was certain could not be found in England, wild grass overgrown and waving freely in a gentle breeze. The furniture was pale and spotless from where it was spread throughout the wide area, and there was a stone fireplace crackling with flame beneath a large wooden mantle.

Blaise Zabini stood before an enchanted window, his back to the doorway as he stared out at the meadow. Harry shifted his weight and at the quiet creak of the floorboards, Zabini turned around to face them. His face automatically split into an attractive smile at the sight of Malfoy.

"Draco," he breathed, stepping closer, but something about Malfoy's body language made him halt.

"Shall we sit?" Malfoy asked briskly, gesturing to a collection of chairs. Harry automatically took a seat in an armchair and Malfoy sat on the couch to his left. Still smiling, Zabini took the seat next to Malfoy, who tensed slightly at the proximity. At the sight of the blond's reaction, Harry wanted to intervene but was not sure what exactly he would be inserting himself into or how much Malfoy would appreciate it.

"So, Potter's protecting Slytherins now, then?" Zabini wondered aloud, eyeing Harry with curious interest.

Sighing, Malfoy frowned. "What have you heard?"

At the question, Harry frowned as well. What  _had_ he heard? The case was not supposed to be public knowledge—last Harry knew, the department was still keeping things quiet. How would Zabini have heard about it?

"Theo, Tracey, Millicent," Zabini recited somberly, looking as if the names pained him. Taking a breath, he continued. "And Pansy."

At the final name, Malfoy's hands clenched into tight fists where they rested in his lap. He seemed to be gritting his teeth, and Harry was not exactly sure what emotion he was attempting to hold back. Had Pansy been a friend? Lover? Confidant? Harry had no idea what Malfoy's relations were to anybody in the blond's life. He and Pansy had attended the Yule Ball together in fourth year, but other than that, Harry had never heard of them being anything beyond friends.

Malfoy's voice snapped him from his train of thought. "Don't," he uttered, voice hard as he glared at the dark-skinned man to his left. Not quite sure what it was that Malfoy was telling Zabini not to do, Harry had the suspicion that the man was ignoring the warning as he smiled sadly at the blond.

"I'm so sorry, Draco," he murmured, reaching one hand toward Malfoy in an attempt to caress his cheek. Leaning further back out of the range of the man's arm, Malfoy's glare deepened. "But I am," Zabini continued speaking as Malfoy continued to glare, and Harry wondered what their odd form of communication meant.

"Perhaps," Zabini hesitated, shooting Harry a pointed look as he addressed Malfoy, "we could speak privately?" He dropped the arm that had been stretched toward the blond, resting his palm on the empty couch between them and leaning closer to Malfoy. "Please?" The single word was spoken in a breathy voice that Harry could barely hear. The faces of the two Slytherin's were only inches apart. Malfoy shivered but did not move away as he stared at Zabini. Harry fought the urge to either clear his throat or cough, or else maybe try to sneak out unnoticed. The scene before him felt far too intimate and he felt extremely uncomfortable for intruding on it. It gave him a weird twisting, knotted feeling in his stomach.

At least the question of what type of relationship they had was now answered, he supposed.

"Erm," Harry began, quiet voice breaking the silence. "I think it's better if we explain the situation to you first, Zabini."

The words seemed to snap Malfoy from his daze, who glared even harder at the other man and pointedly scooted further away, closer to Harry. The corners of Zabini's lips twitched as if he was amused by Malfoy's actions.

"Don't bother," Zabini interrupted, just as Harry opened his mouth to continue. "I am already well aware of everything." His voice was smooth and confident once more, the solemn tinge to his tone now vanished.

"You couldn't be," Harry shook his head. Was Zabini always this annoyingly self-assured? Like most of the other Slytherins, Harry did not know Zabini at all, hardly ever having spoken to him the entirety of Hogwarts.

"Oh, but I am," the man smiled widely, revealing dazzling teeth.

"Don't question it, Potter," said Malfoy suddenly, staring at Harry and firmly ignoring Zabini. "And don't ask him how he knows. He won't tell you."

Sighing in resignation, Harry nodded. "All right, then," he said, "so I'm just going to assume you know that Ron and I have been assigned to watch over the three of you."

"I won't argue with that," Zabini agreed, gaze traveling over Harry's body from head to toe. "And yes, I did know about it." The final statement was delivered smugly, and Harry noticed Malfoy's hands clenching into fists once again.

"And how many people in the Ministry did you have to fuck to get that piece of information?" he asked sardonically, voice dripping ice, and Harry felt chilled. What had happened between the two of them?

Sighing, Zabini responded sadly, "Always assuming the worst of everybody, aren't you, Draco?"

"Always giving me reason for that assumption, aren't  _you_ , Blaise?"

Ignoring him completely, Zabini directed his next question to Harry. "And how is poor Daphne doing?"

Deciding not to comment on the fact that the man's voice sounded anything but concerned, Harry answered, "She's doing better. She's upstairs at the moment."

"Lost, possibly," Zabini smiled. "There were times when I was living here that I would get lost. Draco would have to use that handy locating spell he does with the house just to come rescue me." He laughed a low, sensual laugh, peeking at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye.

At the sound of the man's laughter, Malfoy snapped his fingers. Pibby cracked into view with a glass of some amber liquid Harry did not recognize, handing it to Malfoy and bowing before vanishing again.

"Drinking before dinner, Draco?" Zabini asked teasingly. "What would your mother say?"

Harry thought the glass might shatter from how hard Malfoy was clenching it. "Shame that my drinking habits are no longer anything you're allowed to comment on, isn't it?" he spoke in a tight, angry voice.

"It is if I still care about you," Zabini responded softly, all traces of earlier humor gone.

"Also something you're no longer allowed to comment on," Malfoy snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. "Stay here or don't stay here, I don't even fucking care." And with that, he tossed back the whole of his drink in one burning gulp, stood from the couch, and strode from the room.

As the door swung shut, the room was plunged into an uncomfortable silence. Harry felt confused about the situation and angry on Malfoy's behalf and puzzled by his own response to it. Zabini stared after Malfoy with a slightly frustrated expression on his face, but the next second he had turned to Harry and the expression was gone, replaced with a casual regard.

"So," he began. "What do you boys have so far? Any suspects? Arrests? Mysterious folders and ambushing schematics?"

"Well," Harry hesitated. He did not like admitting that they knew almost nothing and had very little to go off of. "I can't really go into detail about ongoing investigations," he answered cautiously.

"So you know nothing," the man said bluntly.

Reminding himself that Zabini was directly involved in this and had the right to question him, Harry responded in a detached tone of voice. "I can't discuss the details of an open case."

"Course you can't," Zabini grinned, his smile just toothy enough to make Harry feel an edge of discomfort. "All you can ask is that we place our trust and personal safety in your hands."

Unsure of how to reply, Harry simply stared at him. "I'll just leave you to get settled in, then," he said finally, longing to escape the lounge and maybe find Malfoy, who had wisely taken the opportunity to leave the room.

"Don't worry," Zabini said, eyes glittering. "I know my way around the place."

"Right," Harry said, standing and striding through the same door as Malfoy. There were no further words from behind him and he hurried down the wide hallway, passing beneath chandeliers and being stared at curiously by the occupants of the portraits lining the hall, all of whom Harry assumed to be ancestors judging by the pale features. As he wandered, he took the time to send a Patronus to Ron and one to Wescott, informing both of them that Zabini had arrived and was aware of the situation.

Unsure of where Malfoy had gone but also unsure of what else to do, Harry decided to head upstairs to look for him. The second-floor library was the first place that he thought of when wondering where the blond may have disappeared to.

The journey felt even farther than it had the last time Harry had been there, but eventually, he found it. One door was already propped open, which was a promising sign and at the sight, Harry wondered if maybe Malfoy wanted the brunet to find him, but dismissed it the next instant. If there was one thing Malfoy had consistently been over the years, it was proud.  _Maybe that was the old Malfoy, and this is another hidden facet_ , his mind countered, something Harry would love to believe of the blond.

As he entered, he took a second or two to glance around the room. The library was beautiful, and even though Harry had never really had an appreciation for literature, the room made him want to bury his nose between the crisp-scented pages of a novel and inhale the words as eagerly and thirstily as Malfoy seemed to.

Wandering deeper into the room, Harry continued to look around in awe. The library was wide and round, bookshelves wrapping around every inch of the circular walls. In the center was a dark staircase, winding upstairs to the second-level where Harry had found Malfoy the last time. It was there that he headed, one hand sliding along the oiled wood of the banister as he ascended the coiled staircase.

Once he reached the top he spied Malfoy immediately, curled into a coffee-colored armchair and nose buried in a book, the spine of which was facing away from Harry. But upon catching sight of the blond, Harry hesitated. Should he interrupt Malfoy? Maybe this was one of those times where Malfoy would prefer to be by himself. Most likely he was still angry and Harry's interruption would only lead to a fight. But for some reason Harry wanted to make sure that Malfoy was okay. Maybe it was because of what had happened earlier, in the drawing room, how kind Malfoy had been to him. Harry was simply going to return the favor and Malfoy would have to live with it. If they really were going to be friends—something Harry was beginning to want more and more—then they would have to get used to being comforted by each other.

Mind made up, Harry marched forward to sit in the armchair opposite Malfoy. From that position, he could read the violet letters curling along the spine of the book. "Sylvia Plath?" Malfoy was reading Sylvia Plath? Of course he was. When would Harry stop being surprised by the things he did not know and would never have suspected of the man? "Do you ever read anything that  _isn't_ Muggle literature?" the brunet wondered aloud.

For several seconds Malfoy did not respond, but eventually, he glanced up to stare at Harry with an odd expression on his face. "All of these are, you know," he gestured around at the shelves.

"All these are Muggle authors?" Harry asked, surprised yet again.  _Maybe I should start keeping track of the time in-between astonishment when he does or says something unexpected_. "All these are yours?"

Nodding, Malfoy glanced around fondly. "I started collecting Muggle literature in second year." As he spoke, he rose from his seat to drift along the shelves, pulling a thick book from its place and handing it to Harry. "This was the first Muggle novel I ever read."

"The Count of Monte Cristo _?_ " Harry murmured, fingers stroking the silver lettering of the title. The book was intimidatingly large, and Harry could not imagine picking up a book that size at the age of twelve and attempting to read it for personal enjoyment.

Nodding again, Malfoy sank back into the armchair he had risen from. "After I read that, I knew I had to have more. I paid some Ravenclaw girl for some books and a catalog to order them from. And that," he stared around, "turned into all this."

The words made sense, Harry knew that they did, and yet for some reason, his brain was having trouble comprehending them. "You obsessively collected Muggle literature in secret all throughout nearly the entirety of our time together at school?"  _Definitely should've timed that one_ , he thought wryly.

"It doesn't make much sense, does it?" Malfoy said softly, voice sad for some reason. Whatever the reason was, Harry did not like it and wanted to redirect the blond's thoughts.

"So when did you start reading poetry?"

At the question, Malfoy smiled and relaxed slightly, as if just the thought of poetry was enough to calm him. "Fifth year," he said.

"And who's your favorite?" The question was asked before Harry had even made the conscious decision to wonder it. Malfoy looked surprised, as if not expecting to get asked his personal opinion about anything, but he appeared to be pondering it, mulling it over for long minutes before finally answering, and Harry liked how seriously he took the question and how difficult finding one name seemed to be for him.

"Either Lord Byron or Walt Whitman," he answered slowly, sounding as if there were more names he wanted to add and yet was restraining himself from doing so, something Harry wished he wouldn't do. He longed to hear the blond speak freely, without the stiff self-awareness that he always seemed to possess. Harry wanted to watch him talk about the things he loved, face open and relaxed, silver eyes glowing as he explained the many reasons behind his adulation of his favorite author's works, the latter of whom surprised Harry yet again.

"An American?" If Harry kept forgetting to keep track of time between shock at the blond, he would at least have to start keeping track of how many times it happened in a day. "I wouldn't have expected that. I mean, I know Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath were American, but, I dunno…I just…" he trailed off awkwardly, unsure of how to explain the reasons behind his surprise.

Laughing at the look on Harry's face, Malfoy shrugged. "Whitman was brilliant. Discovering him changed my life," he admitted. "His words changed how I saw the world. He helped me accept my sexuality when I was younger and when I came out to my friends, a lot of the credit was due to him."

 _When I came out to my friends._ Malfoy was gay? Well obviously, Harry had suspected, what with the tension between Malfoy and Zabini and the way they had been acting, but still, to hear it said aloud like that, it was…Harry wasn't sure what it was. He wasn't sure what to say. There was a slight pink flush staining Malfoy's cheekbones as if he wasn't actually as comfortable with confessing that to Harry as his steady tone might have led him to believe.

Wanting to break the silence, Harry spoke. "And Lord Byron as well, I suppose? He wasn't exactly straight either, was he?" His tone was casual and teasing, and Harry saw the blush fade from Malfoy's cheeks to be replaced by a curious expression.

Chuckling, Malfoy eyed Harry strangely. "No offense, Potter," he said in amusement, "but you're, maybe not the  _last_ person I would expect to recognize these poets, but pretty far down the list. I mean," he continued, as Harry opened his mouth to agree with him, "I know that you were raised by Muggles, but I guess you just never struck me as anyone particularly pedantic."

Smiling, Harry shrugged in agreement. After leaving school, he had done very little reading, despite how much Hermione was constantly lecturing him about all the numerous life-healing benefits of burying oneself between the pages of a novel for hours—if not days, in her case—at a time. "Hermione reads everything," he explained, smiling again at the expression that crossed Malfoy's face like the world suddenly made sense again.

"Ah, yes, Granger's influence," he nodded. "Good for her for introducing some culture into your life, even if you've never taken the time to appreciate it."

"I prefer to surround myself with others who will appreciate it for me," he quipped lightly, not commenting on the fact that Malfoy was now included in the list of people he surrounded himself with, even if it was technically on a temporary, work-related basis.

Words were mumbled under Malfoy's breath that Harry barely caught, what sounded like "typical Gryffindor", and Harry smiled.

"So your father let you keep these here, then?" he asked, staring around at the enormous collection. The second-level had low ceilings and small windows, but it was magically enlarged to be even wider than the downstairs, and every shelf was groaning beneath books, solid walls of novels. There were even quite a few stacked atop tables, as if Malfoy had been unable to decide which one he wanted to read at the time and had simply chosen to skim through them all. It was the only book collection Harry had ever seen to rival Hermione's—it was in fact even larger than her own—and he was curious to see what would happen if they were ever put into the same room and the subject of literature was brought up.

Grinning at the mental image of the shocked expression on Hermione's face at the news that Malfoy collected Muggle authors, it took several seconds to notice that Malfoy was quiet and that a dark look had crossed his face. At the sight, Harry's smile dropped and he immediately regretted his question.

"He never knew," the blond replied curtly. "I hid them in various places around my room and at school all throughout my adolescence, then had Pibby move them up here the day after he was sentenced to Azkaban." The ends of his words were bitten off sharply, and Harry felt remorse at having been the one to put the razor edge to his voice.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, chagrin coursing through his veins. Why was he always speaking without thinking? Of course Lucius Malfoy would never have allowed his son to read Muggle literature, let alone amass it. "I didn't think…"

"Don't be sorry," Malfoy said, gaze fixed to a shelf above Harry's head. "It's in the past, Potter."

Brittle silence followed his words, hanging heavy and dusty between them, like the dry sour-smelling pages of a forgotten textbook. There was a question Harry longed to ask, but he did not want to upset Malfoy further. Deciding to throw caution to the wind and hoping the man would not begin shouting, Harry spoke. "Can I ask you a question?" he began slowly, becoming encouraged as Malfoy nodded warily. "Don't get offended or anything,"—the wariness grew more pronounced—"but is part of the reason you collected Muggle novels so zealously in your youth was that it was some form of teenage rebellion against your father and the strict standards and principles he raised you to uphold?" The question was asked more formally than Harry had intended, and he waited nervously for Malfoy's response.

Malfoy stared at him for several seconds before he unexpectedly burst out laughing. "I suppose part of it was, yes," he chuckled, and Harry was relieved that he had not gotten angry. "There was always something thrillingly forbidden about reading Muggle novels. Even now," he reached out and ran one finger down a spine lovingly, "when there is no danger of being caught with an Oscar Wilde book, I still get a rush just from the act."

The words gave Harry an odd shivery feeling, but not in an unpleasant way. "I love hearing you talk about them," he said, gesturing with one arm to the ring of novels surrounding the two men. "I feel like I could listen to you speak for hours." He wasn't exactly sure what made him admit to that, but it was true nonetheless.

Smiling gently, Malfoy eyed him with that same curious look he had given the brunet earlier—as if Harry was an impossible puzzle that Malfoy was attempting to solve, and yet did not have all the pieces to yet. "I remember a time when you would have given anything to shut me up."

At the reminder of their schooldays, Harry grinned ruefully. "Yeah, things were different when we were younger, weren't they?"

"Indeed," was Malfoy's only response.

"Look," Harry fidgeted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling awkward and not really sure about the reason, "if you have a problem with Zabini staying here, we can make other arrangements for him." They were staying in Malfoy's home, after all. The man shouldn't be made to feel uncomfortable in his own house.

"You would make other governmental arrangements just to appease any discomfort I may feel at being near Blaise?" The question was asked in a bewildered tone of voice like Malfoy could never imagine Harry offering such a courtesy.

"Sure. This is your home, after all," Harry pointed out. "And Neville volunteered himself to help out as well, so he can take Zabini to the safe house if you want."

Malfoy continued to look at him in bemusement but shook it off before answering. "That's quite all right," he said smoothly. "I appreciate the gesture, but I wouldn't want to split the guard or anything. Especially after the way Daphne's solo Auror protection turned out. Blaise may be a bastard," his voice became brittle, pronouncing the  _b_ 's with a sharp pop, "but even I do not wish to see him dead."

At the opening he was given to ask the question he had been wondering for days, Harry hesitated. "Can I…" Would Malfoy be offended? Based on their past communications, Harry didn't think so, but it was a very personal question he was about to ask, one Malfoy had already refused to answer the last time he had voiced it.

Deciding to take the risk again, he continued. "Can I ask what happened? Between the two of you?" There. He said it, the words were out, now all he had to do was wait for Malfoy to reply and wonder why he had been so nervous asking the question in the first place. It was possible it wasn't the question itself, but the answer that made him anxious.  _What the hell is that supposed to mean_? He did not have an answer for himself.

"I…" Malfoy began but paused, searching for either the words to explain himself or else a way out of the situation. "It's rather personal," he said cagily.

"You don't have to tell me," Harry said quickly, not wanting to pressure the blond into revealing more of himself than he may have been ready for, despite the burning curiosity Harry felt urging him to ask endless questions in order to better know the man.

"Well, let's just say," Malfoy said haltingly, apparently still deciding what to say or how much to tell him, "that we were together for a time, but it ended badly and we haven't seen each other in several months."

Longing to ask him for details, Harry swallowed the inquiries and nodded. "If you change your mind at any point about Neville moving him to the safe house, let me know."

The corners of Malfoy's lips turned up into a sincere smile and he nodded appreciatively, whether at Harry's words or his unwillingness to push the subject of Malfoy and Zabini's past relationship, Harry wasn't sure. But he liked the sight of that smile and liked being the cause of it even more.

Silence draped over them softly like the gentle drifting of snow, but it did not feel strained or uncomfortable the way Harry thought it would feel. It felt relaxed, undemanding, and far easier than he would have ever suspected it would be to sit in a quiet room only inches from Draco Malfoy, his sworn schoolyard rival. The words made him want to laugh. He wasn't sure what he and Malfoy were at that moment—all he knew was that it was miles from resembling what they had become that first day on the train when Harry had refused to take Malfoy's hand.

He found himself excited to find out.

 

oOo

 

Tipping his head back slightly, Draco studied Potter, wondering if the new angle might shed new light upon the abundance of mysteries spilling from the man sitting before him, gazing around at the bookshelves with an admiring eye as if recognizing how impressive Draco's book collection really was—which, by the way, it fucking  _was._

The man had surprised Draco yet again, appearing suddenly at the top of the staircase in the library like he had known exactly where to go to find the blond. And then he had taken the seat nearest Draco and began to ask him questions about his collection as if he was serious, as if he cared about the answers and wanted to know Draco's thoughts and opinions. As if he was interested in learning more about Draco.

And it was that quiet sincerity that had made Draco open his mouth and tell him things he had not told anybody else, even Pansy. He had shared  _The Count of Monte Cristo_ with Potter, an act that felt far more intimate than he would have believed it could.

And then, when Draco had been asked about Walt Whitman and decided to inform Potter on why exactly it was that the poet meant so much to the blond, he surprised Draco again by accepting the words and appearing unfazed by them, as if Draco's sexuality was not something to be disgusted over, the way his father had always spoken of such things.

The man had then followed that up with questions about the nature of his and Blaise's relationship. Was that something Potter possibly wondered about a lot? Perhaps even worried about? He had stared between the two of them rather strangely in the lounge when Blaise and Draco had been sitting side-by-side on the couch. Was he just asking in regards to how this would affect his ability to perform his job? Or were there more personal reasons behind it?

Frustrated with his numerous questions and zero answers, Draco opened his mouth without thinking and blurted out the first thing that popped into his mind. "Does your girlfriend not mind you staying here for the indeterminable future?" It was something he had been wondering for quite a while, but the inquiry made him cringe internally. He was not normally so thoughtless in choosing words.

"Girlfriend?" Potter repeated, sounding both amused and perplexed. "You mean Ginny?"

At Draco's nod, Potter grinned. "She hasn't been my girlfriend for a while," he informed the blond, in a casual tone that left no doubt for how the man felt about the break-up, which was clearly not that bothered if the insouciant tone of his voice was to be believed.

"Really?" Draco couldn't help asking, comforting himself with the fact that Potter had asked him about an ex-lover first and it was completely within Draco's rights to return the favor. "How long have the two of you been separated?" He willed his voice to sound less interested and more bored, but he did not have too much faith in his ability to do so.

"She moved out a little over a year and a half ago," Potter informed him, smile still playing around his lips. "She plays professional Quidditch in Wales now."

"So, no ginger children with poor eyesight anywhere on the horizon, hmm?"

"No, God, no," Potter laughed. "I was never quite ready for the life the  _Prophet_ seemed intent on me leading."

At his words, Draco couldn't help but wonder exactly what sort of life the Auror  _did_ lead in his spare time, the one that the  _Daily_   _Prophet_ had so clearly gotten wrong.

"And you haven't found a good enough witch to fill the vacancy yet?" He wasn't sure why he was still asking questions about the man's love life, but Potter seemed comfortable enough with answering and Draco had always been inquisitive.

"Well, I haven't really had time to look," Potter replied with another easy grin, one that made Draco's breath catch. "Work keeps me pretty busy."

At the mention of his work, Draco longed to ask him about the mysterious Caelix, find out just what exactly his relationship was with the man, but he managed to restrain himself with no small amount of difficulty. No need to make himself look completely like an overeager fool. Or worse, demandingly forward. No, it would clearly be for the best if Draco was to stop talking.

But after only two heartbeats, Draco felt impatient and unable to stop himself from conversing with the intriguing man sitting so near him. "So, no dates for the Chosen One, then?" Why did his mouth insist on focusing on Potter's dating life? Surely there were other things he could ask, less telling and potentially embarrassing topics.

"I don't like dating," Potter confessed, staring down at his hands. "I've been on one or two dates since Gin, but I'm never sure if people are interested in dating  _me_ , or the Boy-Who-Lived, you know?"

The words made Draco pause in his consideration of them. He had never truly pondered what dating must be like for Harry Potter. Always having known—and been annoyed by—the fact that Harry Potter could have anybody in the world he wanted, he had never thought about how frustrating that might actually be. Of course everybody wanted to get close to the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but he had never thought about what it must be like to  _be_  that man the whole of the world was so desperate to touch. Everybody thought that they knew Potter, that him offering his life up to the Dark Lord to save everybody was somehow personal, and that because of that they somehow had a claim on him, as if he owed them even more. It left Draco with the odd urge to protect the raven-haired man, a burning desire to somehow shield him from the expectations and demands of the entire world.

But the next second, he scoffed at himself. As if Potter actually  _needed_  protecting—especially from ex-Death Eaters whom he had hated fiercely since the age of eleven. But Draco knew that Potter no longer hated him based on his behavior toward the blond. Beyond that, though, he had no idea how the man felt toward Draco. Did he see Draco in the same light he saw the rest of the world in? As only another person attempting to get close to him for his fame?

But Potter had said things, told him things that Draco did not think he had told very many people. He had told Draco that he trusted him, words rare enough in the blond's life to be of significance. He trusted him enough to stay in Draco's house, under his roof, where who knows what sort of Dark magic everybody in the country believed to be lurking inside?

And despite that, Potter had arrived on his doorstep, determined to protect him and willing to be the bearer of bad news, something Draco would wager had not been a sought-after responsibility. And Draco did feel safer in his presence, something he had not expected when the tousle-haired man had first arrived on Draco's doorstep, looking so serious and somber and asking Draco if he could come in, enter the house where last he visited he had nearly been offered up to the Dark Lord and one of his best friends had been tortured while the other best friend was being held in the cellar—the very same room that Potter had watched that grotesque man Pettigrew strangle himself to death in.

Yet here he was, sitting across from Draco, asking the blond about his book collection and his favorite poets, and offering to make arrangements to move Blaise and create more work for people just on the possibility that Draco may feel uncomfortable in his ex's presence. Why would he do those things? Did he only feel sorry for the blond? Sorry that all of his friends had been killed? Sorry that his ex was a horrible, conceited bastard? Sorry that his mother had fled and his father had been who he was? Sorry that nobody had ever loved him?

The thought made him frown. No, he had been loved. His mother had loved him, he knew that with certainty, even if his father had only ever seen the boy as a disappointment, one to be resented and forcibly molded.

And Pansy, of course, his dearest Pansy had always loved him. She had been there for him in so many ways that nobody else had been, including Greg and Vince, and especially Blaise. And now she was gone, and Potter was here—the same Potter who was looking at him questioningly, causing Draco to come back to himself. How long had he been gazing at the other man?

A heavy silence had blanketed the room, settling over them both as they silently stared into each other's eyes. A sort of buzzing charge was beginning to build, and he wasn't sure what the right thing to say in that situation was and was not even sure how they had gotten to that point, but it had been building all day—actually, ever since Potter had first arrived with the news. Maybe even before that, Draco was not sure and did not want to take the time to contemplate it.

The silence stretched as neither man took their gaze from the other. It felt to Draco to be a sort of challenge, but he was not sure what the stakes were or even any of the rules. The eyes that stared into his own were impossibly green; deep pools of intensity that Draco could feel pulling him in, submerging him; he was drowning in emerald. Then Potter shifted forward, lessening the distance between them by a fraction, and Draco knew that he needed to break the quiet and say something before he launched himself at the Auror through the short span of empty air separating the two.

And knowing his luck, Potter would probably then use those lightening-fast Auror reflexes to kill him on instinct before he was even aware of what he had done. And Draco had no intention of dying without having first known what Potter's mouth tasted like, even if he had to be patient first.

Having never been a patient person—the result of growing up an extremely spoiled only child—all he could do would be to try his hardest. The temptation to touch the other man was becoming harder to ignore, however.

Fortunately—for Potter, at least—they were interrupted by Pibby's familiar crack and high-pitched voice, splitting the intensity that had been growing between the two men.

"Master Draco, sir!" he squeaked. "Dinner is being ready, sir, and Mister Blaise and Miss Daphne is already being in the dining room, sir."

Potter blinked and sat back, staring at Pibby in bewilderment as if he had forgotten that there were three other people and a house-elf staying in the Manor with them.

Clearing his throat, Draco attempted to respond. "Very well, Pibby, we are on our way."

Not looking to Potter, Draco rose from the armchair and led the way down the twisting staircase and through the familiar beloved room. They walked down the wide hallway in silence, occasionally peeking at each other out of the corners of their eyes as their footsteps echoed lightly along the marble of the grand staircase.

Finally, they arrived at the large set of doors, already open to admit them. As they entered, Draco immediately spotted Blaise and Daphne, sitting across from each other and talking quietly. It did not escape his notice that the two had—same as Weasley and Daphne that very morning—chosen seats in the very middle of the long table.

As Draco entered the room and neared the others, he paused. He was unsure of what to do—he did not want to sit next to Blaise, but he did not want the good-looking man to sit next to Potter, either. Daphne had turned in her seat to smile at Potter and Blaise was eyeing Draco in a way that made the blond flush and glare.

Before he could make a decision between the unappealing options, Potter took it from his hands by striding around the table to sit next to Blaise. Sinking into the seat next to Daphne, Draco wanted to smile at Potter, show his gratitude for the man's consideration but felt unable to in the presence of two Slytherins, one of whom was Draco's ex-lover.

Determinedly not staring at anybody, he directed his gaze toward the table, where a plate of salad had suddenly appeared before him. Knowing that everybody had received the same without having to glance around, he picked up the correct fork and began eating, noting with amusement that Potter picked up the first fork his fingers could find and began to spear the lettuce, in complete ignorance of the fact that he was using the dessert fork. It made Draco want to laugh and tease the man, but once again he reminded himself of the presence of Slytherins: Daphne was a stranger and Blaise had proven beyond a doubt that he could not be trusted.

The salad dishes were cleared away to be replaced by a creamy pumpkin soup, hot and delicious and soothing the ache in Draco's throat caused by keeping all the words trapped inside that he longed to spout to Potter and all the hateful accusations he wanted to fling at Blaise. The dinner was mostly silent, nothing beyond the clink of silverware against glass dishes or the sounds of chairs being adjusted.

Just as dessert popped up before them, a toffee pudding of Pibby's that made Draco's mouth water just seeing it, Weasley strolled through the doors and hurried to the table, pulling out the chair next to Draco, to the blond's surprise. Was he too hungry to walk to the other side to sit next to Potter? Too lazy, perhaps? Or was he really just not bothered by sitting next to a man who had once actively tried to make his life a living hell?

And more importantly, was Draco ever going to stop being surprised by either of the Gryffindors?

Several dishes popped up in front of Ron, who happily began wolfing down the food. "Seriously, Malfoy," he said as he swallowed a large mouthful. "Your house-elf is brilliant. If Hermione wouldn't object so much, I'd probably try to take him."

"Good luck getting him to take orders from a Gryffindor," he smirked. For some strange reason, he did not find it difficult or aggravating to converse with the redhead. He was not nearly as infuriating as he once had been, and Draco smiled at the thought that the other man probably thought the same thing about him. They really had all grown up, hadn't they?

"You love Gryffindors," Weasley smirked back, an expression Draco had not known the man able to make. "We're half your dinner guests."

"What would my ancestors say if they knew?" Draco responded sarcastically.

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Weasley, smirk widening. "I've been making it a point to introduce myself to the portraits."

At the thought of a Weasley introducing himself to the portraits of Draco's uptight ancestors, he burst out laughing. More of a quiet chuckle, really, but it slipped from his mouth before he could stop it.

Glancing over at Potter, he found the man staring at him and Weasley in astonishment, as if unable to comprehend the sight of the two of them trading barbs in a somewhat friendly manner. Draco cringed internally. It wasn't possible that he was becoming friends with a  _Weasley_ , was it? But they had spent several hours of the day together, talking and playing chess, exchanging conversation and insults not actually meant. Was he really  _friends_  with the man, though? What would his father say?

At the thought of what his father would say, Draco grinned and decided that he had no problems with being friends with a Weasley, especially a Weasley that came so closely attached to Potter. The same Potter who was still staring between the two of them in bewilderment, making Draco want to laugh once more.

The desire to chuckle, however, died upon glancing over to find Blaise watching him curiously. The second their eyes connected, Blaise smiled a slow, breathtaking smile. God, Draco had nearly forgotten how good-looking the man was. With a wrench, he tore his gaze from Blaise's, swinging it to the right to land on Potter, who was still watching him. Draco wondered if he had ever shifted his gaze.

At that moment, a crack split the room as Pibby appeared by his elbow. "Master Draco is getting an owl, sir," the elf informed him, handing him a blank white envelope.

The others stared at him with varying degrees of interest as he rose from the table to cross to the fireplace, slitting the seal with unsteady fingers. Was it Greg? Had he written Draco back? Was he safe?

He pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it to find thin slanted writing belonging to Wisp. The letter was short.

_Malfoy,_

_I've found something that may interest you. Write back with a time and I will send you the name of a location._

_W_

He tossed the parchment into the fireplace and watched as the flames quickly devoured the dry paper, curling in on itself as the edges blackened and were eaten away. He stood watching the paper burn silently until it was nothing but ash and Draco could no longer see any hint of it.

A hand touched his shoulder blade hesitantly and Draco turned his head to find Potter standing just behind him, the heat of his body radiating out to touch Draco with its warmth. It gave him the urge to step closer, fit his body along Potter's and bask in the intoxicating glow, somehow feeling much warmer than the flames licking heat along the front of him.

Deciding against moving closer, he lifted one eyebrow in question instead.

"Is everything okay?" Potter asked softly, glancing at the fireplace before flicking his gaze back to the blond.

"No, but nothing's worse." The words were spoken just as quietly, despite the fact that the others surely must be able to hear the conversation.

"Is it…can I help with anything?" The question was asked uncertainly as if he was not sure of either Draco's response or the audience listening in.

The earnest expression on Potter's face made Draco smile. "No, not with this. But thank you."

The hand had not left his shoulder and Draco was loath to break the contact, but there was a small crowd nearby watching, one of whom was Draco's ex. He did not need Blaise to read into the situation and use it to mess with Draco's head.

Stepping away from Potter and pointedly not glancing in Blaise's direction, he began to make his way from the room. "I think I'll turn in now," he called over his shoulder, not looking back at the other three. "If any of you need anything, Pibby is around." Striding quickly through the large doors and down the hallway, he nearly made it to the staircase before Potter caught up with him.

"Wait," the man said as he reached out a hand to pull Draco to a stop. He turned to face the Auror, who was once again standing far too close and yet nowhere near close enough, watching Draco with what he suspected was concern. "Are you sure everything is all right?" He glanced back down the hall toward the dining room.

"Are you referring to the letter or Blaise's presence?" Draco asked dryly, heart hammering in his chest. Why had Potter chased after him like that? Was it just to offer his help again? Or was it for a different reason?

"Both, I suppose," Potter smiled a tiny smile, but there was a sadness lurking around the corners of it.

"I'm fine, Potter," he lied, knowing it was a lie and knowing that Potter knew it as well, but it was Draco's house and if he wanted to lie about how he was doing inside his own home, then he fucking well could.

"Well, if I can help," Potter shifted his weight forward, "in any way, then please let me know. I want to, Draco. Help you, I mean."

Potter wanted to help him? It would hardly be monumental, the man wanted to help everybody. He had sacrificed his life for strangers, after all.

But Draco couldn't help but ask, "Why?"

Whatever he had been expecting Potter's response to be, it was not the one that he got. The man flushed nearly the color of his crimson robes as he raked a hand through his hair.

"I dunno," he began falteringly. "I just…I dunno, we're sort of…friends, now, aren't we?" Keeping his gaze locked firmly on the floor, he scuffed his shoe nervously, as if expecting Draco to laugh cruelly in his face or scoff in disgust at the thought. But Draco was in shock and could do neither.

Potter considered them to be friends? Draco had a friend? He had never had a single friend outside of the small circle of Slytherins; in fact, he had never had a friend who was not a Slytherin. But Potter wanted to be friends?

Well, if Harry Potter wanted to befriend Draco Malfoy, who was Draco to try and argue with the man?

"Sure, Potter," he said softly. "We're friends."

The Auror glanced up to smile at Draco shyly in a way that made Draco's breath catch and the temptation to kiss the man returned full-force, but he managed to smother it with difficulty. They had just barely become friends, he was not about to push his luck by making a move on the man—no matter how beautiful his smile or how green his eyes. For now, they would have to be appreciated from a distance.

"Good," said Potter, smile widening as he studied Draco's face. "But if we're going to be friends, you should probably call me Harry. I don't have any friends that call me by my surname. All right, Draco?"

The sound of his given name rolling off of Potter's tongue did curious things to Draco's body. It made his face heat and his fingers tingle. He had heard Potter call him by his given name before, of course, when he had first dropped back into Draco's life, but the context had been miserable and horrifying, grief-filled. This was different. This was Potter calling him by his first name not because he had difficult news to deliver and wanted to comfort the blond, but because he simply  _wanted_  to call him by his given name because they were  _friends._

It was certainly something Draco could get used to.

"All right, Harry," he agreed, returning the man's smile.

"Well," Potter—Harry—cleared his throat. "I suppose I'll let you go to up to your room, then." He gestured toward the staircase. "And I need to talk to Ron about a few things." They both glanced down the hallway, where the sound of voices was steadily growing louder. "I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"

The look he gave Draco made the blond want to drag him upstairs to the bedroom with him, but he managed to refrain. Barely.

"Sure," he said instead, throat dry. "I'll see you in the morning. Harry."

With a final smile, Potter turned and made his way back down the hallway he had come from, leaving Draco staring after him in amazement.

 _I have a friend_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interhouse friendships abound at the Hogwarts reunion slumber party! Or is the drama only just beginning?
> 
> Still so many miles to go!


	8. Fall, Leaves, Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only warning I can think to come up with is a Douchebag Warning, pretty much mostly entirely in regards to Blaise Zabini. So, you know, you've officially been warned

_Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;_  
_Lengthen night and shorten day;_  
_Every leaf speaks bliss to me_  
_Fluttering from the autumn tree._  
_I shall smile when wreaths of snow_  
_Blossom where the rose should grow;_  
_I shall sing when night's decay  
_ _Ushers in a drearier day._

"Fall, Leaves, Fall" _—_ Emily Brontë

 

* * *

 

 

 _T_ _ap. Tap._ Blinking awake, Draco lifted his head groggily to see an owl glaring at him from the other side of the balcony door, tapping on the glass impatiently with its beak.  _Taptaptaptap._ Grumbling, he threw back the covers and stomped across the room, grasping the handles and roughly yanking the doors open.

" _What?_ " he demanded testily, short-tempered and not having had nearly enough sleep. Even though he had retired early the previous evening, it had been quite a while before he had fallen unconscious, and even then the sleep that he had drifted into had been uneasy.

Instead, he had asked Pibby to bring him several books and had tried in vain to put Potter—Harry, he reminded himself—from his thoughts. It had proved too difficult to be much of a success, however. The thoughts were still there and he was still in shock. Harry Potter wanted to be friends with him? And not only wanted it but in fact already considered Draco to be a friend. Even all this time later, Draco was still having trouble trusting it had actually happened. Since the age of eleven, he had been forced to accept that Harry Potter did not want to befriend him. And yet now, however impossible, that was the reality the blond was faced with. And an unexpectedly pleasant reality he was finding it to be.

He could be friends with Harry Potter. Stranger things had happened, after all, hadn't they? Had they? Surely they must have, at some time. Was it any stranger than anything that had already happened to either of them? Was it any stranger than his father being sentenced to Azkaban for following a deranged madman with no nose? Was it any stranger than that same madman killing Harry Potter and yet Draco knowing with certainty that Harry Potter was sleeping in the room next to him? Surely it wasn't stranger than losing Pansy and the others, or having to go on the run with his Potions professor after attempting to kill his ancient headmaster to prevent his family from being killed by the same deranged maniac when he was sixteen had been, right?

A loud impatient hoot from above brought him from his silent musings.

"Yes, all right," Draco sighed, crossing to the owl perch where a small bag of treats hung. "Give it here, then."

The treat was tossed up to the owl, who snatched it from the air with its pointed beak and swooped to the perch so Draco could untie the letter from its leg. The seal was slit to reveal Wisp's handwriting, giving him a two-word Floo address,  _Birch Cavern_. Draco had written him the previous night, just one word,  _Noon_ , staining the parchment. At noon, he would have answers.

Glancing at the words and committing them to memory, he placed the tip of his wand to the parchment and watched as it began to smoke and curl in on itself, red line ringing the vanishing edge as fire consumed it. With another loud hoot, the owl swooped from the perch and out through the open doorway.

Following the bird's flight, Draco stepped out onto the balcony and glanced around, noting how early the dawn still was, the orange sun only just beginning to crest the navy horizon, the sky still a deep blue but noticeably paling. Lavender-colored clouds streaked the heavens above him, reflecting pink with the arrival of the sun. A flock of birds flew low over the treetops, heading into the distance where the sky was steadily growing lighter in the rising face of morning. From where he stood he could not be certain, but he thought the birds might be magpies.

Gaze glued to their flight, the old nursery rhyme that Pansy had loved to repeat when they were younger flashed automatically through his mind:

 _One for sorrow,_  
_Two for mirth_  
_Three for a funeral,  
_ _Four for a birth_

 _Five for silver,_  
_Six for gold  
_ _Seven for a secret not to be told._

 _Eight for heaven, nine for hell,  
_ _And ten for the devil, his own self._

It was impossible to think those words and not hear them chanted in the familiar singsong voice Pansy used when reciting nursery rhymes. He would give anything to hear her recite it once more.

The birds flew out of sight, and as they vanished into the distance it left him with a hollow ache in his chest. Knowing it would be impossible to fall back asleep, he turned from the depressing dawn blanketing the balcony and firmly shut the doors behind him before stripping off his pyjama bottoms as he crossed to the ensuite. The sadness he felt at the maudlin thoughts of Pansy clung to him like a melancholy second skin, making his body itch and his chest throb hotly with what he knew to be heartache. He could feel misery being pumped through his veins with every beat, a steady pounding of pained anguish that he could do little to fight against. He overcompensated for the burning in his chest by adjusting the temperature of the water to scalding and stepping fully beneath, hoping to scrub the sorrow from his flesh like dirt and erase any lingering grief.

But he also knew it was not that easy.

Unable to fight the damned tears slipping from between his clenched eyelids, he ducked his face beneath the searing flow and tried to tell himself it was simply water, he was not crying. He was fine. He had always been fine and he would continue to be fine. A gasp tore itself from his throat and before he knew it he was crying, properly crying, gasping and sobbing and shaking, and he could no longer tell himself that it was simply the water from the shower wetting his cheeks.

Sinking down to the cold tile of the floor, he rested his forehead against his knees and allowed himself to cry. For Pansy. For Theo. For Millicent and Tracey. For his mother and father. For Vincent. For Greg. For the fact that Blaise was there, in his home, still looking as beautiful as he had the last time Draco had seen him, when the man had all but ripped the heart from Draco's chest to leave a gaping wound behind, as well as the wrenching silence and cold nights that Blaise's absence had left in its wake.

And Draco cried for himself. He cried because he was scared, he cried because he was alone. He cried because everybody in his life up to that point had somehow abandoned him, somehow left him behind. He cried because he had thought like an idiot that Blaise might actually have possibly loved him, only to find out that the man had been having affairs for  _months_ without Draco ever being any the wiser. He cried because Potter was in his home, looking the way he did and asking for friendship, and yet Draco could not take comfort in the man the way he wanted to.

He cried because he could not even remember the last time he had felt loved, secure, or important. Nobody had ever prioritized him first in his entire life. Not once. Not even Pansy, although she came the closest. No, he knew that she still had placed the priority of herself over that of Draco, as had all the rest of them—something he could not actually fault them for. He had done the same, putting himself first before all the others.

But it still hurt.

Not even his parents had prioritized him first. Certainly not his father, who placed himself above absolutely all others, and not even his mother, who truly did love him. Draco knew she did. But she had loved Lucius more, almost desperately at times. She had gone along with nearly everything the man had wanted, excepting Lucius wanting to send Draco to Durmstrang. At that, she had put her foot down, for the first and only time in his entire childhood that Draco could remember. She had said it was much too distant and she did not want her son and only child residing in a foreign country so far away, and to his—and he suspected hers, as well—eternal surprise, Lucius had agreed and Draco had gone to Hogwarts, instead.

She did love Draco. Just not enough to stay.

And Blaise had proven that he had never loved Draco, never cared about him in the same way that Draco had felt toward him. Draco had been just a warm body, a hot mouth, a willing arse—a bed and a mansion and endless piles of gold. Did that make Blaise the whore? Or Draco? He wasn't sure, and the question made him cry even harder.

Was there something wrong with him? Something that made it impossible for others to love him? Maybe if he changed himself, the people in his life would actually stick around. Maybe if he had been a better son, his father could have loved him. His mother would have stayed with him. Maybe if he had been a better friend, his friends would have stayed in his life, kept in contact. Maybe if he had been a better partner, a better lover, Blaise would never have cheated on him. At that point, it  _had_ to be something he was doing. It had to be his fault—his own fault that he was simply impossible to love.

Lost in grief, Draco remained curled uncomfortably on the chilly tile until the water turned cold, then freezing. Finally, when there were no tears left, he stretched out his stiff limbs and climbed slowly to his feet, standing on trembling legs and shivering violently as he shut off the glacial water before hurriedly snatching up the fluffy white towel waiting for him and scrubbing roughly at his face with it, wanting to hide all evidence of his breakdown. It would not do well to show weakness in front of four people that Draco did not trust.

There was nobody left alive that he did.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he sighed as he cast several handy spells at his face to remove any lingering trace that he had been crying before beginning his daily morning rituals: combing his hair, cleaning his teeth, picking out an outfit for the day.

Perhaps it was a subconscious reflection of his mood, but he settled on a pair of midnight-colored robes, slipping them over his head before glancing down at himself and frowning. The style and color gave him the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to attend a funeral. Fighting back a shiver, he attempted to ignore the morbid feeling hanging over him as he swept from the room, unable to bear being in his chambers any longer.

But once the door was shut and the hallway stretched silently to either side of him, he was at a loss for what to do. There was still plenty of time before his meeting with Wisp, and it was still too early for breakfast, not that Draco even wanted to think about food at the moment. There were stocks and investments he needed to go over, as well as several different family accounts that needed balancing, but he could not bring himself to even consider the idea and decided it could all wait for a later date. He was in no mood to go over finances and just the thought of pouring over pages and pages of figures was daunting enough to make his head ache.

Without consciously deciding on a destination, his feet began to drift forward automatically, beginning to lead him along the familiar path to the library. He was stopped, however, before he had even reached the staircase by a shaggy-headed figure stepping from the marble landing onto the plush carpet nearby and immediately stealing all of the air from Draco's lungs. Harry Potter stood before him, breathing heavily and looking gorgeous.

The man was dressed in grey joggers, loose enough to allow him room to move, but fitting mouth-wateringly snug around his narrow hips. And above the scrunched elastic band riding low on the man's waist was nothing but a thin white sleeveless shirt, drenched in sweat and clinging deliciously to his muscle-wrapped frame. It was raggedy and old and so worn that Draco could see right through it, but he certainly was not going to suggest that the man purchase a new one.

"Morning, Draco," Potter panted, placing his hands on his hips as he tried to catch his breath from the climb upstairs.

Tearing his eyes away from Potter's chest was nearly impossible, but somehow Draco managed to wrench his gaze up to meet the other man's. "M-morning," he stammered, cursing first himself and then Potter for his inability to speak. Merlin, it wasn't like the man was  _that_  gorgeous.

 _All right, I'm a fucking liar,_  Draco amended, giving in to the temptation to glance back down at the other man's body.

"Just went for a run," Potter—Harry, damn it—explained, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the stairs.

"Ah," was all that Draco managed to say. Runs were good. The man should go for a run every morning.

"I like running when it's still early like this, before the sun has fully risen," Pot—Harry explained.

"Right." Well, at least that response was an actual word.

"What are you doing up so early?" the brunet wondered curiously. "You don't really strike me as a morning person."

"Oh, I—" Draco began, not quite sure what to say.  _I was woken early by an owl from the questionable ex-Hit Wizard whom I've employed to track down Pansy's killer, which you and the other Aurors have yet to accomplish, and have spent most of the morning crying on the floor of my shower?_  Probably best not to say any of that. "I couldn't sleep," he settled on instead. It was at least part of the truth.

Potter's expression softened and for a moment he looked as if he was going to stretch out a comforting hand to place on Draco, but he only shifted his weight between feet. "I couldn't either," he admitted, glancing down at his scruffy trainers. "I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, so I went for a run instead. The grounds are beautiful, by the way."

Draco wasn't sure if the compliment was genuine or if the man just wanted to change the subject, but he went along with it willingly. "Of course they are, Potter," he said, one eyebrow raised. "Do you think my ancestors would have built their home anywhere  _ugly_?"

Smiling, Potter shook his head. "Harry," he corrected. "I haven't called you 'Malfoy' today, have I?"

The corners of Draco's mouth turned up as he shook his head. "Harry," he amended. "Would you like to join me for breakfast?" The words had been blurted before he had time to think it fully through, and the second the question left his mouth, he turned bright pink and looked down at his shoes in horror, hoping that Potter had somehow been stunned into temporary memory loss and Draco would be able to slip away unremembered.

"Yeah, sure," P—Harry agreed, startling Draco into glancing up. "Just let me shower and everything first, yeah?" He eyed himself with a grimace of disgust. "I'll meet you down in the dining room when I'm decent."

Draco wanted to argue that what he was wearing was perfect and that the man looked more edible than any food Pibby could prepare for them to eat, but he held the words back and nodded.

"Would you like to eat outside in one of the gardens?" he asked, surprising himself yet again. "I can have Pibby set it up out there, and you did say the grounds were beautiful, and I can show you more of them if you would like…" His voice trailed off and he had to fight against the urge to summon the largest object near him and begin bashing his head against it; he did not want to appear too deranged in front of Potter.

"Sure," Pott—fucking hell, though, Draco was a second away from pinning a name tag on the man's bloody chest—Harry said, smiling. "That sounds nice. I'll, uh, just go get showered then, yeah?"

Nodding and waving him off, Draco watched as Potter turned and made his way to his temporary chambers. Was he really walking quickly, bouncing excitedly, almost, or was Draco simply imagining it? He wouldn't be surprised if he was imagining it. He wouldn't be surprised if he was imagining any of it. It certainly made more sense than thinking that Harry Potter was staying in his home, befriending him and accepting Draco's rashly-spoken offer of breakfast.

And speaking of, he called for Pibby, who popped instantly into view within the first syllable. "Prepare breakfast for Harry and me," he informed the elf, ignoring the spark of elation at saying the man's given name aloud in that context. "We will be taking it in the east gardens." Those gardens had a particularly lovely view of the sunrise, one he wanted to show Potter. When had he last watched a sunrise with anyone?

The sun had already risen, of course, but it was still lovely and it was still ascending.

"Yes, Master Draco, sir," Pibby squeaked. "Pibby is doing it right away, sir." The elf had hardly finished speaking before his tiny body vanished.

Draco made his way down the stairs and from the house, entering the garden along familiar paths he had known since childhood. As he made his way past row after row of flowerbeds, all spilling with arrays of colorful petals and soaked in early golden sunlight, Draco realized that the grass was much too long as it waved gently up at him in the breeze. Weeds were creeping in amongst the violets and the hedges were well past due for trimming, the edges no longer resembling anything like the neatly cut lines he knew they should have. He knew that Pibby could not be expected to do everything alone, but it saddened Draco to see the current state of the Manor grounds.  _His_ grounds. He would have to see what he could do about getting Pibby extra help.

Continuing to make his way through the gardens and attempting to ignore the overgrown state of things, he finally arrived at the table that Pibby had set up for the two of them, sinking into a seat as a steaming teacup popped up in front of him. He pulled it toward himself and blew lightly across the surface, glancing around at his surroundings as he took a small sip. Nearby was a cropping of hawthorn trees, leaves green and sweeping branches blanketed in tiny white flowers. Draco knew that at this time of year, any leaves left should have been bright orange and the flowers would have been tiny red berries, but the climate spells set permanently in place over the grounds did not allow any of the plants to change color or wither and die as the seasons passed.

For once, Draco would like to see the garden as it actually appeared.

A stream cut a trickling path through the grass and flowers near the table, winding itself past a large willow tree that hung drooping and sad over the water. Would the tree appear that way if magic wasn't holding everything in place, freezing time and forever halting life in an unnatural state of existence? Could anything even be considered alive if it could no longer grow and die as its time came?

The questions felt morbid to Draco and he knew that he did not want his mind to continue down that particular line of thinking, attempting to instead distract himself by taking a large gulp of tea and staring around the gardens with a closer eye. The sight and sounds of Draco's familiar surroundings felt comforting to him as he sat by himself in the warm autumn sun, gazing around at the grounds he had known since childhood as he waited for Potter to join him. Harry had certainly been right about the grounds, even wildly overgrown and in desperate need of care, the gardens really were beautiful. African lilies stood in proud bunches amongst rows of different-colored carnations, the flower beds spilling with all different sorts of blossoms—violet bellflowers, blue foxgloves, white gillyflowers, large pillowy lilacs, purple stalks of lavender, bright yellow and white daisies, entire rainbows of tulips, as well as every color of Daffodil imaginable, Draco's favorite. The flower never failed to remind him of his mother.  _Narcissus_ , he thought fondly, as he reached out to stroke one golden petal. Would all those flowers be dead at that moment if the earth had been allowed to lead its natural course on the garden?

Draco supposed he would never know.

The sound of quiet footsteps had him turning from his cooling tea to find Potter approaching, dressed in Muggle jeans and a simple powder blue t-shirt. His hair was still damp from the shower, looking thick and touchable where it curled gently along his neck, and the man looked even better than he had that morning when he had been breathing heavily and covered in a light sheen of sweat.

As he neared, Draco noted with satisfaction that all of Potter's clothing fit him much better now than it had when they had been at Hogwarts. Perhaps when his Weasley had moved in, she had thrown out all of the hideous clothing, so baggy on him that it had nearly drowned the skinny prat.

This clothing, on the other hand, fit him snugly, comfortably, not too tight as to be obscene, but just tight enough to make Draco's throat dry. He took a sip of tea in response as Harry—Draco mentally congratulated himself on his brain's use of the man's given name—neared and dropped into the seat opposite him, grinning.

"How do you find anything on your property without your house-elf showing you?" he asked. "I feel like he has to lead me around every time I have to so much as find a loo."

"Well, I  _have_ lived here for twenty-one years, unlike you," Draco responded sarcastically, but his heart was pounding and his words held none of the biting edge they would have once been sharpened with.

Potter—Harry, damn it—grinned even wider at the statement. "True enough," he said, just as a teacup popped up in front of him along with a plate for each of them, both loaded with steaming sausages, bacon, eggs, and small stacks of buttered toast. It smelled wonderful and Draco was surprised to find that he was hungrier than he had expected. Next to him, Harry had already begun eating in silence, one corner of his mouth tugged up in a small lopsided smile as he took a bite of toast and swallowed smoothly before licking any lingering crumbs from his lips.

Draco's throat felt dry; it felt like it was not working properly and he gulped at the remaining dregs of his tea, frowning at the taste but able to somewhat swallow more or less normally. Forcing his eyes away from the brunet was difficult, but Draco managed himself to wrench his gaze away and focus on the plate before him. He was able to eat several bites before the knot in his stomach forced him to give up and he pushed the plate aside, reaching once more for his teacup and tapping it twice with his spoon. Dark liquid instantly filled the cup, hot and steaming and already prepared just the way he liked.

"And what are your plans for the day, then?" Draco asked politely as he sipped his tea.

Harry grimaced. "I was planning on bringing some of the paperwork from my office over," he stated in a voice that quite plainly expressed how the man felt about paperwork, which was clearly not positive. "I may as well get as much of it out of the way as I can." He sighed heavily, as though paperwork was the very bane of his existence, even worse than the Dark Lord had been. It made Draco want to chuckle.

So he did. "Paperwork, hmm?" He ignored the thoughts of his own mountain of parchment awaiting him in his study and took a bite of toast instead.

"Well, someone's got to do it," said Potter, watching as Draco's tongue flicked out to wipe away a dab of butter at the corner of his mouth. The gaze made Draco feel self-conscious and he was unable to stop himself from fidgeting nervously in his seat.

"Yes, I can't imagine Weasley's handwriting is legible," he said, attempting to distract Potter into blinking.

It worked. The man blinked and his gaze swung upward to meet Draco's once more, although the blond did not feel any less self-conscious. If anything, he felt even more so, as though Potter would now be able to read all the confusing thoughts and embarrassing emotions swirling through him just from the eye contact alone. Were his eyes particularly telling? Would Potter be able to guess at all of the painful and complicated feelings roiling through the blond?

Not willing to take that chance, Draco lowered his gaze to the table as he sipped slowly at his cooling tea.

"What about you?"

The question was unexpected and it startled Draco somewhat, but he would not allow the Auror to see that and kept the reaction hidden as best he could. "I have business later," he answered, waving his hand carelessly as though his meeting with Wisp was of no importance.

"You're going out?" Potter seemed surprised, as though he had been expecting Draco to lock himself away in the isolated safety of his own home with only himself for company, passing the time by never speaking to anybody. And once the danger was over and the others were gone, that was most likely what Draco would end up doing.

 _Not unless the killer gets to me first, of course_ , he thought grimly, frowning to himself.

With another heavy frown, Draco shelved the morbid thoughts away for the time, focusing instead on responding to Potter. "Sometimes business does call me away," he said, smiling softly as his head bobbed in a serious nod.

"Well, I'm going with you," Potter said immediately, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes in challenge as though daring Draco to argue, which was exactly what the blond intended to do.

"Oh no, you're not." There was no way he could meet with Wisp with  _Harry Potter_ in tow. The man would never allow him to bring anyone else to their meetings, especially not an Auror—especially not  _the_ Auror. He would vanish without hesitation; disappear with Draco's answers and his gold, never to be heard from again. And while Draco did not give a fuck about the gold, he needed those answers.

"Yes, I am," said Potter stubbornly. "I'm supposed to keep you safe, Draco."

The words sent a tiny tingle shivering through Draco's body, whether it was from the man using Draco's given name so familiarly, or the thought of being protected by the Chosen One, he wasn't sure. But he liked the thought of Potter wanting to protect him, even if he had used the words  _supposed to_  instead of  _want to._  Draco would let it pass for now.

"Well, I suppose you'll just have to take a break from playing hero, then, won't you?" he drawled sarcastically, trying to ignore the fierce hammering of his heart that Potter seemed to have set racing.

At the words, Potter's eyes narrowed further. "What is this business and why can't I come?"

"I assure you it is nothing illegal, Potter."  _Not much, anyway_. Meeting with Wisp was hardly illegal. Wisp was the one toeing the thin line of the law, not Draco. "I have business associates, however," he continued, "who would not take kindly to the presence of an Auror." Potter's eyes flashed and his mouth opened, but Draco hurried to speak over him. "No matter how legitimate the dealings may be, it would send a bad message and show a damaging lack of trust, not to mention, least of all, that they would find it unforgivably rude." It was true enough and he hoped that Potter would not argue with it.

The man appeared ready to do just that, however.

"Potter, I'll be fine," Draco assured, gentling his voice so that the other man would also calm. "I promise I won't be gone long, all right?" It should not take too much time for Wisp to give Draco a name. Just one name, that was all he needed, and then he would be back to plot his merciless vengeance. He had promised Pansy the moment he learned of her fate and he fully intended to keep it.

"I don't like it," Potter argued. "What if something happened? No, I really think I should come." His eyes blazed with a familiar stubborn glint. "I won't wear my Auror robes, all right?" He said the words as if he truly believed it was a good compromise, causing Draco to grind his teeth.

"Potter," the blond began, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing both temples as he glared at the other man, "You are without a doubt the most easily recognized wizard in the whole sodding nation, if not the entire bloody  _world_. It's not the  _robes_  that are going to give your identity away."

"I'm not leaving you on your own to get killed, Malfoy," Potter shot back, returning the glare.

"Bloody fucking hell, Potter," Draco ground out. "One," he ticked off a finger, "I am not going to get killed. Two," he ticked another, "I am more than capable of looking after myself. Three," Potter's eyes narrowed as Draco ticked a third finger, "I shall be the one leaving, not you. And four," Draco wondered how Potter could see, his eyes were so narrowed, "Are you planning on keeping me prisoner in my own home to prevent me from doing so?"

The man said nothing, simply stared at him in frustration for several long minutes. The only sounds Draco could hear were the rustle of wind through the trees, the cawing of birds in the distance, and the musical trickle of the nearby stream. Refusing to break the silent contest of wills, Draco folded his arms and sat back in his chair, waiting. He did not have to wait long.

"Fine!" Potter growled, dragging a rough hand through his hair. "Fine, you prat! I guess I can't keep you locked up here, and I'm sure you know a million ways to shake me if I follow you." His words were sullen and he leaned back in his chair, looking angry and defeated. The man's clear upset was surprising and Draco was not quite sure what to make of it. Did Potter really care that much? Or was he simply concerned for the sake of his job? It would hardly appear to his benefit if Draco was killed whilst under his protection, after all. But was it possibly more than that? At the moment, Draco had no idea.

"I do indeed know a million ways," he replied mildly. "Despite how insistent the stalking can become at times."

He watched in growing amusement as Potter struggled not to smile. "God, you're a tosser though sometimes," the brunet shook his head. "Fine, go to your business meeting. But," he fixed Draco with a steely glare, "if anything  _does_  happen, I am holding you personally responsible, and you had better fucking come back as a ghost just so I can say  _I told you so_. Got it?"

Fighting his own smile, Draco nodded. "Fine, yes," he waved a hand, lips still twitching. "I'll come back as a ghost so you can say  _I told you so_ and I can then haunt you for the rest of eternity. It's a deal."

Giving in to the smile attempting to stretch his face, Potter shook his head again. "Oh, sod off," he said good-naturedly. "I don't plan on being followed around forever by your dead transparent arse, so do me a favor, yeah, and maybe try to  _not_ die today, hmm?"

"Just for you, I shall try my hardest not to," Draco agreed.

Potter grinned. "What time is your meeting at?"

"Noon."

"Well, if you're not back by three o'clock, I'm coming after you, and damn whatever your business associates think." His words were tinged with the same persistence as earlier and Draco had no doubt that the man meant everything he said.

"Giving me a curfew now, Mother?" Draco raised one eyebrow. "Should I check in every half hour as well?"

"Christ, but you make protecting you frustrating," Potter ground out, but Draco could see the amusement in his eyes.

"If you had imagined it would be anything but," Draco said lightly, "then you must have suffered brain damage in your line of work and are now misremembering the past. I suggest St. Mungo's. I hear they have excellent Mind Healers."

"Oh, I don't think there's any possibility of me forgetting our past, Draco," Potter—fuck, Draco wanted to smack himself in the forehead; why was it so hard to fight the instinct to think of him by his surname?—Harry laughed.

"No," Draco said quietly, "I can't see how either of us would." The words were spoken in a much sadder voice than Draco had intended, and he instantly clamped his lips together, but Potter had already heard the tone and it was too late.

"How about you show me around a bit?" Harry suggested softly, glancing across the gardens spread all around them. "You still have a few hours 'til you have to leave for your meeting, and I want to see more of the grounds."

"You do?" Wasn't Potter only there for work? Did he really want Draco to show him around his childhood home? Was this the man's way of trying to get to know Draco better, maybe spend more time with him, perhaps? Or was he merely impressed by the land and wished to see more of it? The lack of answers made Draco want to shout, but he schooled his face into a genial expression and nodded. "Of course. Are you finished with your breakfast?"

Pushing the plate away from himself in response, Potter tossed back the rest of his tea and stood, smiling as Draco also rose and began to lead them through a path in the flowers. As they walked, he pointed out various plants and their names and uses, as well as the names of the smaller buildings scattered across the property. He told Potter stories from his childhood, feeling a warm surge of delight every time Potter laughed or teased him about being so posh. They traded insults and barbs, but unlike in their younger days, there was no malice behind their words, no jealous scorn or seething hatred. Draco was surprised by how well they seemed to get along and how easy the conversation seemed to flow. Harry was surprisingly intelligent and shockingly funny, and soon had Draco laughing and forgetting his despair from earlier in the morning. It gave him something else to focus on.

Were they truly friends? Was it actually possible? It appeared to be real, but Draco was terrified to trust it, certain that the moment he did, it would disappear. Would Potter disappear too, once it was all over? Once the case was solved and Draco's life was no longer in danger, would he simply fade away like the others had? Would he even say anything at the end or would he simply vanish without any sort of farewell?

The thought threatened to once more drown Draco in crippling sorrow, but he managed to keep above the battering waves of grief by focusing on the present Potter. They were friends now. Just because every single one of Draco's other friends had abandoned him somehow did not mean that Potter would do the same—even though Draco could not blame him if he did. After all, it had been firmly established in his mind that he was simply impossible to love. Even Potter would not be immune to Draco's glaring character flaws that made that statement so painfully true.

The day grew brighter and the air warmed as mid-morning began to pass and noon sped closer toward them. Casting a tempus charm, Draco noted that if he wanted to be on time for his meeting—a good idea, considering how Wisp did not like to be kept waiting—he needed to head back to the main house.

"Come, Potter," he waved, beginning the journey back toward the Manor.

"Harry," the brunet corrected, falling into step beside him. "Is it really that hard to remember my name?"

Draco shrugged. "Habit."

"Well, break it," said  _Harry_.

"Easier said than done," Draco grumbled under his breath.

All too soon they reached the main house and  _Harry_  walked him to the door of the sitting room before turning to the blond and flicking his wand suddenly in his direction as he murmured something. "Just a spell so I can find you if I need to," he explained. "Because I mean it, Draco," he continued, staring Draco directly in the eye. "If you're not back by three and I haven't heard from you by then, Ron and I will both be coming after you."

"I won't be long," the blond smiled widely, not minding the idea in the slightest of Potter coming after him.

"I'll see you later then,  _Draco,_ " Potter emphasized Draco's name as though he knew with certainty that the blond had just thought of him by his surname.

"Even if it's as a ghost," Draco smirked.

"It better not be," Harry said sternly, shifting his body closer.

"To the best of my ability," the blond quipped, stepping backward through the doorway.

Turning and striding to the fireplace, he scooped a handful of powder from the bowl on the mantle and turned back to lock eyes with Potter, who was still standing just beyond the threshold of the room, arms folded across his body as he silently watched Draco. He offered the brunet a smile as he tossed the powder into the fireplace and stepped into the green flames before softly calling out the two words Wisp had sent him. The room began to spin and Draco closed his eyes as his smile tightened dangerously.

Finally, he would have answers.

 

oOo

 

Arms still folded, Harry watched as Draco spun out of sight and the flames faded from green to return to their regular orange once more. He felt more than uneasy about allowing the blond out of his sight—he had been put in charge of him, for Merlin's sake—but Malfoy had been right. There wasn't much Harry could do unless he was willing to either hex and imprison him, or stalk the man, and Harry knew that Draco had not been lying when he said he had ways of avoiding the Auror. He had been all too good at that very thing in sixth year, even with the Marauder's Map in Harry's possession.

But Harry had meant what he said about the time limit and was fully prepared to go after the other man and barge in on whatever questionable meeting he may be involved in if he took too long. Harry would not allow any more harm to come to anybody, especially Draco, and especially now that they were friends.

Friends.

The thought was still strange. When he had questioned Draco on their friendship the previous night, he hadn't fully been expecting the man to agree. After all, Harry had been the first one to turn down an offer of friendship. It would only be fitting that Draco got his revenge, even if it was years later.

But the man had surprised him yet again. Part of Harry hoped he would never stop. Another part of him knew that when the case was solved and the whole thing over, Draco would go back to his life and he would no longer have need of any friendships with Harry Potter.

After all, they hardly traveled in the same circles, or knew the same people, or shared the same interests. But despite that, their conversations had been shockingly comfortable. Draco was surprisingly easy to talk to and funnier than Harry remembered him being.

When Harry had reentered the Manor after his run, he had not been expecting to encounter Draco Malfoy near the top of the stairs, looking—there was no other word for it— _dashing,_  dressed in robes of deepest black. Harry wondered if all the blond's clothing was tailored so perfectly. For some reason, he wanted to find out.

Then, the man had surprised him  _again_  by asking him to breakfast with him. In the gardens, surrounded by blooming trees and a rushing stream and what appeared to be  _fields_ of impossibly fragrant flowers. They had watched the sun climb higher in the sky as they ate together and conversed in what in Harry's opinion passed for an enjoyable, extremely civil conversation. And then Malfoy had shown him around the grounds and they had spent  _hours_ together and yet no hexes or insults had been thrown unless it was in a teasing manner.

And now Harry was here, standing outside the sitting room and still staring in at the fireplace Draco had disappeared through, worrying about the man. Part of him felt like laughing at himself for worrying about Draco Malfoy, and another part of himself was seriously regretting letting the blond just go off alone like that. That part was growing larger and louder by the second, but he was distracted by a voice speaking close by.

"Did Draco disappear, then?"

Turning to face the smooth tone, Harry found Zabini eyeing him curiously from several yards away, a small smile playing around his mouth.

"Yeah," Harry cleared his throat, not wanting to answer the man but also not knowing enough to really be able to answer. "He'll be back soon, though."

"Course he will," Zabini's smile widened, showing just the barest hint of teeth. "He's always popping away for impromptu business meetings, but he'll never tell who they are with or what business they involve, no matter the form of bribery on offer for the answer." His arms were loosely folded over his abdomen as he leaned casually against a wall, not taking his gaze from Harry. "He'll return soon enough."

"I hope so," Harry mimicked the other man's casual posture and mild tone, stepping back to rest one shoulder against the wall. He felt on edge with Zabini's presence and was not quite sure why. How could he dislike the man already? Harry barely knew him. "For some reason,"he continued, "he feels uncomfortable in this house." A pointed stare accompanied the words, causing Zabini to laugh charmingly.

"Oh, Harry,"—for some reason, it annoyed Harry that the man would use his given name with such familiarity—"I thought all you Gryffindors were terribly blunt about everything, to the point of crass, even?" The smile never left the man's face. "If there is something you wish to know, you simply need ask." He swept one arm out in front of him, in a gesture of invitation to voice his questions.

"What happened between the two of you?" Harry asked automatically, the same curiosity he had been feeling for days burning itself through him. He still wasn't sure why exactly it was that he was so curious, other than the fact that Malfoy was clearly upset about whatever it was, and Harry did not like the idea of Zabini having hurt the blond. Had he left Malfoy? Broken his heart? Betrayed his trust? The way Draco was acting toward the other man left Harry with the impression that whatever had happened was Zabini's fault, but Harry had no idea what it was. Only that he did not like it.

"Well, knowing Draco as well as I do," Zabini drawled, eyes glittering, "I know he'll not have told you anything. All I'm willing to say is that it was a misunderstanding, one I plan on correcting at present."

At the words, Harry's fists clenched but quickly loosened in surprise at his own reaction. Neither Malfoy nor Zabini's dating life was any of his business. If they wanted to get back together and Draco decided to trust him again, what right of it was Harry's to complain?

Except that he did want to complain. Loudly. As Draco's friend, he did not want the blond to be hurt again, and he had clearly been hurt by Zabini.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Maybe you don't know Draco as well as you think you do."

Laughing again, Zabini took several steps forward, standing very close to Harry to meet his gaze evenly. The dark-skinned man was several inches taller than the Auror. "Of course I do, Potter," he breathed, brown eyes boring down into Harry's own. "I know him better than any other living person, his mother included. I feel fairly confident when I say that yes, I  _do_ know Draco, just as well as I believe myself to."

Stepping even closer, he continued speaking, "I knew him even better than Pansy did, considering she never had sex with him or ever got to see him naked, which is quite an enjoyable sight." His voice slipped into a lower octave, flashing that too-toothy smile at Harry again. "She never sucked his cock or knew what it tasted like, heavy and warm on her tongue. She never fucked him so hard he forgot his own name or knew how pretty the sight of him on his knees could be. She never got to hear him moan her name or whisper filthy things into her ear as he rode her cock and begged for more, never got to see the way he arches his back when he comes, or know that sometimes, he likes it a little bit rough. She never had the delights of exploring his bondage kink." His voice had quieted to a velvet whisper, the words sliding over Harry with a peculiar prickling.

But Harry was frozen in shock. He could not believe any of the words Zabini was saying to him. He could not believe this was the first actual conversation they had ever had, and Zabini was telling him those things. A strange rage was beginning to build within the Auror, one he fought fiercely to control. He would not give Zabini the satisfaction of reacting to him, no matter how angry his words were making Harry feel.

But how  _dare_  he say those things about Draco.

Harry may not have been back in Malfoy's life for very long, but there was some sort of connection between them, however odd or unexpected it may be. And now that they had both acknowledged their newfound friendship aloud and were on first-name terms with one another, as well as being able to joke and tease each other so easily, Harry was damned if he was not going to defend the man.

He was beginning to understand why whenever Draco spoke about Zabini, he referred to the man as a fucking bastard.

The effort to keep himself in control was demanding all of Harry's focus. Concentrating on his breaths, he ignored Zabini and managed to somehow not hit his smug face. It would hardly bode well for Harry if he were to physically attack one of the targets under his protection whilst on duty. If Zabini lived through this, then Harry could always find him after and they could revisit the conversation.

With that thought planted firmly in mind, Harry began to calm and was able to respond in a steely voice. "Well, what with your  _misunderstanding_ ," he sneered the word, "and the time since the two of you last saw each other, I'd wager that you don't actually know him as well as you think you do. Then there's the fact that he doesn't seem to want anything to do with you or anything from you, especially not your  _familiarity_."

The smile never left Zabini's face, but it turned icy and sharp. "For now, Potter," he said in a soft voice. "For now." And with that, he turned on his heel and swept away, leaving Harry a still-shocked frozen block near the door of the sitting room, trembling with suppressed anger.

He wasn't sure what had just happened, or what it had all meant, or even who had emerged victorious from the confrontation, but he knew that the whole thing had left him with a sour unpleasant taste in his mouth, as well as the strange urge to hit something. Zabini's face sprang to mind and Harry immediately pushed the thought away. He was still responsible for protecting the infuriating man and would not allow his personal feelings or intense dislike of Zabini to interfere with his job. That was how mistakes were made and people were hurt. And Harry had promised Draco that nobody else would be hurt.

Raking his hands through his hair in frustration, he pushed away from the wall and began debating whether or not he should floo straight to the Ministry or attempt to track Ron down first, something that could take  _hours_  in a house that size.

Just as he decided to attempt to find Ron first, a recognizable glowing Jack Russell Terrier bounded into view and began speaking in Ron's voice, " _Mate, where the hell are you? How in the bleeding name of Merlin does anybody find anybody else in this fucking place?"_ The Patronus dissolved and Harry smiled at how he had been thinking the exact same thing only seconds before the arrival of Ron's message. He immediately sent back a Patronus of his own with his location before deciding to wait for Ron in the sitting room.

As Harry waited for the other man to find him, he sat and stared into the same fireplace he had watched Draco disappear into only a short time ago, attempting to get angry thoughts of Zabini from his mind, as well as the new and rather graphic images of Malfoy that Zabini's words had caused to spring up—Malfoy moaning, gasping, face flushed as he begged and pleaded for more, slender body tied up tightly and twisting so beautifully against a soft mattress, pale arms stretched above disheveled blond hair and thin wrists bound securely to the headboard, looking up through lust-filled eyes darkened with desire…Harry could picture the way Draco's back would arch off the mattress as he came, arms still bound so tightly…

With a shiver, he forced the thoughts away. It was  _Draco Malfoy_ , for Christ's sake. How could he picture all of that so clearly? And why did it leave such a pleasant tingling behind? Surely it was just the friendly result of their newfound ability to get along.

But when he tried picturing the same scenes with Neville instead, or, urgh,  _Ron_ , it did not leave nearly the same pleasant tingle in his throat. More like the insistent urge to scrub at his brain with a wire brush until the images were permanently removed.

Before he could ponder too deeply what it all meant, Ron's voice sounded from the doorway, startling him. "Merlin, there you are!" the redhead exclaimed, crossing the room to drop into an armchair. "How the fuck does anybody find their way around here? I was lost for nearly thirty minutes trying to find somebody before I gave up and sent that Patronus. I think I left the dining room through a different door or something." His nose wrinkled as if just the thought of all the countless doors around the Manor was enough to make him physically ill.

"So where were you earlier?" Ron continued, nose smoothing out. "Did you not eat breakfast?"

"Draco and I had breakfast earlier, out in one of the gardens," Harry answered, not realizing how odd that might sound until Ron's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"You and  _Draco_ , eh?" he asked incredulously. "I didn't know it was first names with you two." Harry blushed but before he could respond, Ron continued, "And you ate breakfast together, in the  _gardens_?"

"Well, we were both up early," Harry said defensively. "And I made some comment about wanting to see more of the grounds, so Draco offered to show me around, and it was actually…nice, you know?"

"Mate," Ron began, sounding amused. "I'm not giving you shit for it, honest. I'm just surprised, is all."

Harry studied his face closely, trying to find the truth. Ron wasn't giving him shit or judging him for his friendship with Malfoy? Well, maybe it wasn't actually that unexpected. After all, Harry had noticed that Draco and Ron were also getting along much better.

How drastically had everybody changed since school?

He was suddenly overcome with the urge to throw Malfoy amongst all of Harry's friends from Hogwarts and see what happened. Maybe someday in the future, he would have to try.

"You know, he really isn't all that horrible anymore, is he?" Ron asked suddenly, still sounding both amused and surprised. "Malfoy, I mean. When we first showed up, I was expecting him to be a total arse or throw a strop over everything or stomp around with that whiny posh voice of his, but he hasn't done any of that. Maybe grief makes him more humble, or maybe he really has changed since the war," he mused. "Mind you, these new feelings may just be attributed to how funny it is kicking his arse in chess four times in a row."

At the words, Harry chuckled. He hadn't even witnessed it and still found it funny.

"Yeah, sorry, mate," Ron laughed as well. "But I don't think I can go back to playing against you or Hermione. He's the first real competition I've played against in years."

"Oh no, really? I'm not sure how Hermione and I will ever cope," Harry answered sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "But I suppose we can only go on living, taking things one day at a time."

"That's right, mate," Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Stay positive."

Lips twitching, Harry simply shook his head.

"So where is  _Draco_  then, eh?" Ron peered around as though expecting Malfoy to be ducked behind a piece of furniture.

"He, er, had to go out," said Harry, running a hand through his hair.

"He went out?" Ron's eyebrows disappeared beneath his hair. " _Alone_?"

"It wasn't my idea!" Harry sighed explosively. "I tried to fucking stop him! But you know what a stubborn git he can be, said it was  _business_ , and he could hardly show up with an Auror in tow, and that his contacts would sever all ties with him, and I wasn't about to knock him out and lock him in the cellar, or follow him around like an obsessed shadow, or anything!"

Ron mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Never had a problem with that before".

Deciding to generously overlook the comment—mostly based on the fact that he had no real argument—Harry ignored him and continued speaking, "But he should be back soon, and I told him he has a time limit before the both of us come after him."

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Ron waved his hand through the air. "None of the other attacks have happened in daylight, and I still think that the killer is going to continue to focus on Daphne before anybody else."

At the reminder, both men fell silent.

"What do you think about Zabini?" Harry asked suddenly, startled by the question. He had not even been consciously aware that he was still thinking about the man.

"Zabini?" Ron shrugged. "I only talked to him for a bit last night, but he seems all right enough. Able to hold a conversation, at any rate. He isn't all timid and shy like Greengrass, you know? She's a bit of an awkward one to be alone in a room with." He cast a quick glance over his shoulder as though expecting the two Slytherins to be lurking near the door, listening to their every word.

The doorway was empty.

Casting a quick silencing charm, Ron turned to peer seriously at Harry. "Why do you ask about Zabini?"

Shrugging, Harry tried to come up with an answer. He did not want to tell Ron what Zabini had said to him, or about his and Draco's past. That was too personal to share and besides, Harry did not yet have any answers regarding it.

"I just don't trust him," he settled on finally. "I dunno what it is, but he makes me feel uneasy, you know?"

"I can't say I got the same impression, but all right, we'll look out for him," Ron agreed. "Maybe we can have Neville or someone look into his past, find out exactly what he's been up to, where he's been, who he's been seen with, you know, that sort of thing."

"Yeah, all right," Harry said in a relieved voice. It was comforting to be instantly taken seriously by his partner, based on Harry's instinct alone. "I was going to go into the Ministry anyway, talk to Caelix and bring back some of the paperwork we still have to do."

At the mention of paperwork, Ron groaned and raked a hand through his hair. "All right, I'll stay here with the two weird Slytherins," he nodded. "Let me know if anything has changed, yeah?"

Nodding, Harry stood and crossed to the same fireplace that Malfoy had whirled away in, to god knows where. Tossing in a handful of powder, he stepped into the flames and called out for the Ministry.

The room began to spin, matching the flurried spiral of thoughts swirling through him—Draco, Zabini, the attacks. The thoughts refused to be silenced, clamoring loudly through his brain and leaving Harry feeling much dizzier than from the churn of the Floo. As the Ministry came into sight and he stepped from the grate, dusting ash from his t-shirt and realizing that he had left without his Auror robes, Harry forced every thought from his mind that did not have to do with the investigation or Caelix.

For now, the rest could wait.

Hopefully, Caelix would be there. And hopefully, Caelix would have answers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how many of us are hating Blaise so far? If you're not yet, don't worry. He's just getting started :)
> 
> And for anybody who has been patiently awaiting the meeting between Draco and Caelix, you have something to look forward to in the next chapter. Yaay! I'm afraid I can't promise happiness and friendship between the two, however. 
> 
> Also, for anyone who was wondering, it is indeed very possible that Wisp will have a name to offer Draco. Any suspects yet, darlings???
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, opinions, suspicions, everything!


	9. Upon a High Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I do believe that a meeting between Caelix and Draco was promised, and look at that, here it is! Also, if anyone has been feeling like the Slytherin faces have been outnumbering the Gryffindor ones, this chapter might just be for you.
> 
> Now for just a real quick WARNING—This chapter contains descriptions of past child abuse, as well as a bit of gore.
> 
> That is all.

_I stood upon a high place,_  
_And saw, below, many devils_  
_Running, leaping,_  
_and carousing in sin._  
_One looked up, grinning,_  
_And said, "Comrade! Brother!"_

"I Stood Upon a High Place" _—_ Stephen Crane

 

* * *

 

 

The gates to the lift slid open to the familiar female voice announcing they had reached Level 2 Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Stepping between the parted gates, Harry paused before making the quick decision to see Neville first.

Striding quickly through the heavy oak doors around the corner, he made his way to Neville's office and knocked. A voice instantly yelled to "Come in!", and Harry twisted the knob and opened the door to reveal Neville, sitting hunched over his desk looking down at a small stack of parchment.

"Harry," he nodded, smiling slightly.

"Hey, Neville," he greeted, stepping into the office and shutting the door. Neville's office, like his, would already have silencing charms set in place.

Crossing the room, he shoved aside a stack of parchments on the desk nearest Neville's and hopped up, swinging his legs back and forth.

"How's everything going with Malfoy and Greengrass?" asked Neville, straightening in his seat and setting his quill aside.

"Fine, I think, for the most part," Harry answered, sighing before continuing. "Look, Neville, do you remember how you said I could come to you if I needed a favor?" He still wasn't completely certain of what he was about to ask of Neville, but the hot coil in his stomach would not let him remain silent.

Neville nodded and Harry continued. "Zabini showed up last night." At Neville's raised eyebrows, Harry shrugged. "Yeah, out of nowhere. Nobody knows where he's been or what he's been doing. Malfoy hadn't seen him in months before yesterday."

"You're saying you don't trust Zabini?" said Neville slowly, tilting his head to peer curiously at Harry.

"No, I don't," he admitted. "I'm not sure if I can explain, but there's just something…I dunno, _off_ , about him. He makes me feel uneasy, you know?" It was more than just a personal dislike of the man—there was something about him that the Auror did not trust; he made Harry's skin itch.

"All right," Neville nodded, sending a feeling of relief so powerful through Harry it nearly made him sag. It still surprised him when people trusted his word automatically like that, based on nothing but his gut feeling alone. He felt a wave of affection toward Neville sweep through him.

"I was wondering if you could try and find out for me," said Harry. "Find out where he's been, what he's been up to, who he's been seen with, that sort of thing."

"Sure, Harry," Neville agreed, leaning back in his chair. "I'll look into that and get it to you as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Nev," Harry said gratefully. "I mean it, really. Remind me to take you and Luna out to the pub sometime."

"Sure," Neville chuckled. "Though you know she's only going to end up drinking us both under the table."

Laughing, Harry agreed. He and Neville were both lightweights when it came to alcohol, something Ron and Luna found to be extremely amusing.

"So is he causing any trouble?" Neville wondered, and Harry paused in confusion. "Zabini, I mean," he explained.

"Oh," Harry shrugged. "I'm not sure yet." He looked down at his hands and spoke in a serious voice. "But things are…tense, between him and Malfoy. I asked if he wanted to make arrangements to have Zabini moved, but he said it was fine for the time being."

"Well, like I said," Neville leaned forward and spoke in a quiet, earnest voice, "if you need any help over there or with anything, really, just let me know."

"Yeah, Neville," Harry smiled. "I will, thanks."

"No problem," he grinned back. "Let me know when you want to go out for drinks then, yeah?"

"Yeah, course." Rising from his perch on the corner of the desk, he climbed to his feet and headed for the door.

"I'll bring whatever I find by as soon as I have it," Neville promised, and Harry smiled gratefully over his shoulder, waving as the door swung shut.

Once in the hallway, he made the quick decision to stop by Wescott's office next. The situation regarding Zabini was quickly explained, Harry choosing to keep his suspicions about the man to himself for the moment, at least until Neville got back to him with his results.

Wescott nodded throughout most of it and told Harry to inform him immediately if there were any changes at all. With a firm nod, Harry left the office and headed toward the labs.

Once there he knocked but heard no reply. Gripping the knob, he opened the door to find it silent and empty. The light was on, but Caelix was nowhere to be found. Stepping inside to peer around the table, just to be sure Cae wasn't ducked low behind it, Harry was met with nothing. Where was the man?

Frowning, Harry shut the door behind him as he wondered where Caelix might be. Was he off investigating a crime scene? Did he take the day off? Maybe he was in the autopsy lab, or maybe someone in the department had pulled him away to act as a consultant. It was also possible the man was at lunch, considering the time.

Deciding to leave Caelix a note, he headed down the hallway to the office he shared with Ron. Once inside, he crossed to his desk and pulled a self-inking quill and a scrap of parchment toward himself.

_C,_

_I stopped by but you weren't in. Have you found anything? Let me know either way, I need to talk to you._

_P_

Gathering the heavy stack of paperwork from atop both his and Ron's desks, he waved his wand and it vanished, off to reappear in his chambers somewhere at the Manor. They could get started on that later, although a large part of him hoped the spell had gone wrong and the paperwork had simply disappeared forever.

Sighing, he shook his head, knowing that it was hardly bound to happen with his luck, and even if it did, they would just have to redo it anyway.

Making sure the note he had just written was clutched securely in his fist, he exited the office, pausing at the lab to leave the parchment drifting lazily through the air above the table. Caelix would find it whenever he returned.

Once the lab door was firmly shut tight behind him, he headed back to the Atrium and was nearly to the Floo's before he paused. Thinking quickly, he made up his mind and tossed a handful of powder in, shouting out for the Den of the Lion before feeling the familiar sickening spin.

Seconds later, he stumbled out onto the recognizable wooden hearth, scarlet rug spread out before the flames like a large red puddle of water, flickering shadows dancing eerily across its bloody surface. Glancing around, Harry noted that it was more crowded than he would have liked, though he supposed it _was_ the lunch hour.

Stepping from the rug, he crossed to the long bar and took a seat, waiting patiently for the young barmaid to drift over as she placed various drinks down in front of customers along the bar top on her way.

"What'll it be, love?" she asked brightly, just before her eyes widened in recognition.

Before she could acknowledge his identity out loud and draw everyone's attention, Harry hurried to speak, "Actually, I was wondering if either Seamus or Dean is in right now." He lowered his voice as he spoke and leaned closer, noting that, though still shocked, she automatically did the same.

"S-sorry," she stammered slightly, eyes raking the hair on his forehead as if her gaze could sweep the fringe aside to uncover the scar hidden beneath. "Seamus or Dean? Erm, yeah, actually, I think they're still here." Not taking her eyes from him, she took a step backward, nearly stumbling and knocking over a large bottle full of dark liquid on the counter behind her. "Sorry," she blushed. "I'll just go get them for you."

Smiling at her politely, Harry watched as she turned around and scurried toward a door in the back marked PRIVATE. He tapped his fingers against the bar as he waited, counting breaths and ignoring the stares he could feel from the people around him.

Less than half a minute passed before the door opened and Dean's familiar face stuck itself out of the doorway, eyes locking on the Auror's in an instant.

"Harry!" he called jovially, causing several heads to flick as one in Harry's direction.

Fighting the grimace that threatened to break across his face at the attention, he climbed to his feet and went to meet Dean, who had left the office and was striding toward him.

"How are you?" he asked cheerfully, shaking Harry's hand and clapping him on the shoulder.

"Good," Harry grinned. Every time he saw either Seamus or Dean, they were in contagiously cheerful moods. Harry assumed it had to do with their pub and how much they loved owning it. And he was appreciative of any amount of happiness he witnessed in his friends. "How about you, Dean?" he asked as they dropped their hands. "How are you and Seamus?"

"Come and see," Dean grinned, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the propped-open door. "He's in the back."

Returning the grin, Harry nodded and followed Dean into the room, ignoring the awed stares of the crowd around him. No matter how many times he came into the pub, it was always the same. He was sick of not being able to go out in public like a normal person. Unfortunately for him, Draco had been far too right when he said that Harry was the most easily recognized wizard in the entire nation.

The door in front of him was pushed open by a smiling Dean to reveal a brightly-lit room, a large square window streaming sunlight directly onto an enormous desk covered in various parchments and quills. Seamus sat in a chair facing Harry, frowning down at a row of figures spread across a wide strip of parchment before him, but glanced up when he heard them enter. A smile broke automatically across his face.

"Harry," he greeted, dropping the quill and leaning back in his chair. "It's good to see you again. And speaking of seeing you, look at you not in your Auror robes today," he observed. "You just here for a drink, then?"

"No, I just forgot the robes, I'm still on duty," Harry admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I came to speak to the both of you, actually."

Dean stepped into the room behind him and shut the door. Harry flicked his wand, casting a nonverbal privacy ward before turning to face them. Dean had taken the seat across from Seamus and gestured for Harry to sit in one of the empty chairs off to the side. Sinking into the seat, Harry stared down at his shoes for a moment before speaking.

"This might seem sort of random," he began, not quite sure how to state what he wanted to ask. Seamus and Dean tended to hear a lot of conversations in their profession and had overheard things in the past that had helped Harry and Ron in investigations. Criminals tended to like to brag, especially when they thought they had gotten away with it, especially when they had been drinking. Maybe this was another of those times in which one of them had overheard something that Harry could put to use.

"Have either of you heard anything about Blaise Zabini since leaving school?"

The question seemed to surprise the both of them, who turned to share a glance before facing Harry once again. "Zabini?" Dean asked, thinking hard. "I've never seen him in here. Seamus?"

Both Harry and Dean turned to stare at Seamus, who was tapping his chin as he thought. "Hmmm, no, I don't remember ever seeing him here. I don't think I've seen him since the final battle. Most of the Slytherins disappeared for a while after that."

Harry nodded. "Have either of you heard anything about him? From anyone around the pub?"

They both shook their heads and Harry felt his stomach tighten in disappointment. He had been sure that they would have heard _something_. How could Zabini have just disappeared from all public notice?

"Maybe you should ask Samaira," Dean said thoughtfully. "That would be a name that she would probably recognize if she'd heard it, and she has more day-to-day contact with the customers. I'll go get her." He stood and left the office. At the slight possibility that she might indeed know something and he might finally start getting some sort of answers, Harry's stomach tightened even further in anticipation.

"So is this about a case?" Seamus asked curiously, studying Harry.

"Er, yes and no," Harry answered hesitantly. "But I can't really talk about it."

"Got it," Seamus grinned. "Top-secret Auror business, then."

Nodding and smiling back, Harry turned his attention to the door as it creaked open. The same pretty barmaid from earlier was standing in the doorway, staring at Harry with wide eyes. Dean gently nudged her into the room and shut the door behind the two of them.

"Samaira," Dean said, causing her chocolate-colored gaze to snap away from Harry and onto the dark-skinned man.

"Yes?" she wondered, darting glances back to Harry, who was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, he knew how unimpressive he truly was, and the more star-struck a person acted around him, the more uncomfortable he became. Especially since this was hardly the first time he had met the girl. She had been working there for _months_ , for Christ's sake.

"Have you heard the name Blaise Zabini mentioned by anyone 'round the pub?" Dean asked, lips twitching as he glanced between her and Harry. Harry wanted to glare, but since they were both helping him he politely decided to keep his face neutral.

"Blaise Zabini?" she echoed, nose scrunched as she pondered the question. "I think that's the bloke that Rhys used to always talk about, isn't it?"

"What did he say?" Harry interrupted excitedly.

She smirked at the question. "Oh, he was smitten, of course," she told him. "This guy was some bloke that Rhys was seeing, but I think he must have vanished or left or something because he just stopped talking about him one day."

"Really?" Harry tried to keep his voice mild, but his heart was pounding. Maybe this was the start of something, maybe this would lead somewhere. He needed to speak to that Rhys, whoever he was, right away.

"Rhys who?" he asked pleasantly, smiling at her in what he hoped was a charming way. She seemed taken by it, anyway.

"I—I dunno," she stammered, blushing at his smile. "But he comes in most Friday nights," she informed him, coloring further as his smile widened.

Friday? Harry could wait two days if he had to. Maybe Neville would have figured everything out by then and it would all be unnecessary.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

"Sure," she breathed.

Chuckling, Dean spoke up. "Thanks, Samaira," he said dismissively.

Blushing, she nodded and left the room quickly.

"Does that help you, then?" Seamus asked.

Still grinning, Harry shrugged. "I'm not actually sure," he admitted. "But it's somewhere to start, at least." Rising from his chair, he stretched out a hand to first clasp Seamus's, then Dean's palms.

"Thanks, guys," he said.

"Course," they responded simultaneously, turning to grin at one another, and Harry wanted to laugh. No matter how many things had changed since school, some things still refused to. It was nice to see that sort of consistency.

Turning to the door, he had his hand on the knob before a voice stopped him.

"Wait!" Dean said suddenly, making Harry pause. "I just remembered, Malfoy was in here the other night."

"Malfoy?" Harry spun around sharply, eyebrows raised. "When?"

"A few nights ago," Dean answered. "He was here with some bloke I didn't recognize."

"What were they doing?" Malfoy had gone out? To the Den? He didn't seem like all that social of a person, and the Den hardly seemed like the type of pub he would frequent. Who had he been meeting? Was it a business associate, like the ones he was currently with? Or was it someone more personal?

And why did the latter possibility bother Harry so much?

"They just had a couple drinks together," Dean shrugged. "Weren't here for very long."

"What did the other bloke look like?" Harry asked casually, folding his arms and attempting to adopt a nonchalant posture.

"Shaggy brown hair, sort of scruffy-looking, but young. Bout your height. Samaira thought he was really good-looking and kept pointing him out, that's how I noticed Malfoy."

"And they just had a couple drinks?"

"Yeah, they talked for a bit, Malfoy paid for the drinks," Dean nodded. "Do you think it's anything to do with Zabini? They were friends in school, weren't they?"

"Has Malfoy ever been in before?" Harry asked instead of answering the questions. He wasn't sure how yet, but he knew this was important.

"No," Seamus answered. "I've never noticed him before. Like I said, most of the Slytherins disappeared for a while, didn't want to draw attention to themselves, I figure." He shrugged as if he didn't care either way what the Slytherins did.

Harry could feel his frustration growing. Nothing was making sense; questions were only being added to the already-overflowing-and-yet-continually-increasing pile. "And you don't know what they talked about?"

"Nah," Dean said. "They looked like they didn't want to be disturbed, and it's usually pretty packed most nights. Hard to have overheard something without them noticing, you know?"

"All right, well thanks," Harry sighed. He wasn't sure what to make of this new information, or if it was even worth pursuing. Malfoy's private business was his own, after all.

"Let us know how everything turns out, yeah?" Seamus called as Harry opened the door. Waving a hand in agreement, he stepped from the office and forced a smile once more at Samaira—who blushed shyly but smiled back—before crossing the room to the Floo.

It was time to return to Malfoy Manor.

The spinning finally stopped as he was spat out onto the familiar hearth of the sitting room. He rose to his feet and began brushing off his clothing as he started toward the doorway, but had only taken two steps when Pibby cracked into the room, wringing his hands in distress.

"Oh, Mister Harry Potter, sir!" the tiny creature cried, voice even more high-pitched than usual. "Mister Ron Weasley is needing his Mister Harry, sir! They is upstairs in Miss Daphne's rooms, sir! They is needing Mister Harry, sir, Pibby is thinking. Right away, sir!"

Without pausing to ask what had happened, Harry tore from the room, sprinting up the marble steps that led to the upstairs bedrooms. Once at the top, he dashed down the hallway to the room Daphne was staying in, the door flung open and murmured voices issuing from within. "What happened?" he demanded upon bursting inside, panting slightly as he glanced around.

Daphne was seated on a couch next to Zabini, sobbing softly onto his shoulder. He had one arm wrapped around her and was speaking to her in a low voice. Ron was sitting before a fireplace, talking to Wescott's head in the flames.

"—how then, but it wouldn't—Harry!" Ron glanced up the moment Harry spoke, looking relieved.

Wescott stared at him sharply for several moments. "I'll send him over the second he gets back," he spoke to Ron, eyes flicking to Harry. "Fill Potter here in on everything, Weasley." With an abrupt nod to them both, his head vanished and the fireplace was once more full of nothing but crackling orange flames.

"What happened, Ron?" Harry took several steps closer and lowered his voice, glancing toward Greengrass and Zabini.

Ron glanced at them as well before standing and beckoning Harry out of the room. They walked several yards from the door before Ron stopped and cast a privacy ward around them.

"Daphne was sent something," he began flatly, folding his arms as if expecting the next part to be difficult to talk about.

"Sent what?" Harry asked, blood pounding through his veins. Was it something from the attacker? A letter, possibly? How did they know where she was? Malfoy Manor was unplottable and nobody outside of a handful of Aurors knew that she had been brought to Wiltshire. Most of the Aurors didn't even know that Malfoy was still in Wiltshire, thinking him to also be in a Ministry safe house somewhere.

"She was sent…" Ron paused and his nose wrinkled in disgust. "A finger. She was sent a fucking bloody severed finger in a box, Harry."

A wave of nausea swept through the brunet at the words. Whose finger was it?

"And a note," the redhead continued.

"What did the note say?"

Ron sighed. " _Soon_. That's all it said."

"I want to see everything," Harry demanded instantly.

"Wescott doesn't want anybody touching anything else until Cae gets here," Ron told him. "He's out on another case right now, but he should be back soon enough and Wescott said he'll send him right over."

"How long ago was this?" Harry's mind was whirling. He wasn't sure what time it was but knew he hadn't been gone for very long.

With a start and a sudden flash of panic, he wondered if Malfoy was all right. Had anything happened to him? Maybe this was a distraction; make them think the killer was focused entirely on Daphne, while they were really out snatching Draco.

"Just barely," Ron's voice broke through the shroud of alarm surrounding him, the words drawing him back into himself. He needed to focus on what Ron was saying. "We were all upstairs, I was in my room talking to Hermione through the Floo when I heard Daphne screaming. I ran to her room, but the door was locked and I couldn't get through. Finally, she opened it, and I thought she was about to fucking faint dead, Harry," he paused. "And then I saw it, sitting on her table, in a tiny velvet box." He shook his head rapidly as though to clear the unwanted images from it.

"Do you know whose it was?" Harry asked, feeling almost numb. The killer was sending _fingers_ now? Who would do that? Who was _capable_ of doing that?

At once, several names popped into mind, but most of the list was dead and the rest were in Azkaban. No, Harry was at a complete loss as to who was behind the horrifying string of attacks.

"We're not sure yet," Ron continued to shake his head. "Probably won't know 'til Cae gets here to look at it. And Harry?" He fixed the brunet with a piercing stare. "That wasn't the only box."

"There were _more_?" he asked incredulously. "What the fuck else was she sent, Ron?"

Shrugging, Ron grimaced. "We're not sure yet. She never opened it and I don't want to 'til Cae gets here."

"Wait!" Harry said suddenly. "The first box might have had Dark magic on it! She could have been cursed!" He made to whirl around and dash back into the room, but Ron grabbed his forearm.

"I checked her out for everything I could think of," he informed Harry. "I couldn't find anything on her or the box."

Harry relaxed automatically and berated himself for not expecting that. After Ron's seventeenth birthday and the incident involving the poisoned mead—not to mention the spiked chocolates from Romilda Vane—Ron especially was wary of cursed objects and had made it a point to learn every spell he could about detecting such things.

"I think he wants to kill her himself, Harry," the redhead continued in a low voice. "I doubt he would send something to do it from a distance."

"You're right," Harry agreed in a detached tone. Whatever this was, the motivation was clear: it was personal. And maybe not in regards to all of them, maybe the killer considered Daphne a personal case now that she had escaped him once. But Ron was right—the killer would come for Daphne in person, as they had done for all the others.

"I want to see it," Harry said again.

Sighing, Ron nodded and cancelled the silencing charm. They walked back into the room, where Zabini and Greengrass still sat together on the couch, his arm still wrapped around her in comfort. Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds before Harry looked away. He did not have time for petty challenges or childish staring contests. At that moment, he did not know anything about Blaise Zabini or his motivations. All he knew was that the man's proximity made Harry feel sharp spikes of unease stabbing him all through his gut.

"If you'll excuse us," Zabini spoke, tightening his grip on Greengrass and maneuvering them both into a standing position. "Come along, Daphne," he said gently as he led her into the adjoining bedroom and shut the door.

Harry wasn't sure if the exit was due to Zabini's reluctance to be in the same room as the brunet, or if he simply did not want Daphne to have to watch Harry go through the evidence right in front of her. The latter seemed far more considerate than Harry would have believed Zabini to be, but he _had_ just admitted to himself that he did not know anything about the man. So far, he was just relying on gut feeling.

Stepping toward the round table nearby and pushing all thoughts of Zabini from his mind, Harry immediately spotted the rectangular box that Ron had spoken of, the soft velvet covering it a deep emerald, nearly black. A thick silver ribbon wrapped around the lid in a large bow.

Pointing his wand at the box, he muttered a spell and the lid flipped open to reveal a severed finger sitting atop a mound of velvet. It was a pinky finger, and judging by the width, had once belonged to a man at some point. The bottom of the digit had purpled and turned brown where it had been severed, dark flakes of dried blood scattered across the skin. At the sight, Harry felt hot nausea rising in his throat and used another spell to flip the lid closed once more.

Next to the first box was a smaller one, the one that had not yet been opened, and Harry decided to follow Ron's lead and leave it for Caelix. Next to the two boxes was a single square of parchment, with the word SOON written in large block letters.

Harry raked a hand through his hair and blew the bangs from his eyes loudly. Turning to Ron, he opened his mouth to say what he was not yet sure of but before he could get the chance, Pibby popped into the room, startling him into losing his train of thought.

"Mister Harry Potter and Mister Ron Weasley," the elf squeaked, gaze darting between them. "A man is being outside, sirs, and is telling Pibby that he is from the Ministry, sirs, and is here to be seeing Mister Harry and Mister Ron."

"Caelix," they said simultaneously, glancing at each other.

"Let him in, would you, Pibby?" Harry requested. "I'll come down and meet him."

With a nod, the elf vanished.

"I'll go get him and bring him up here," Harry said quietly. "Do me a favor and warn Daphne that he's coming in, just so she doesn't get freaked, yeah?"

"Course," Ron agreed, taking a step toward the bedroom door.

With a sigh, Harry cracked his neck and exited the room, starting the somewhat long journey back down to the main entrance.

 _This wasn't exactly how I thought Cae would answer my note,_  Harry thought wryly. Worry and fear spread through his veins in heart-pounding pulses.

And as his footsteps echoed lightly along the marble staircase, he wondered fervently again whether Draco was okay.

 

* * *

 

The whirling finally slowed enough for Draco to step neatly from the crumbling fireplace without tripping. He spelled the dust from his robes as he glanced around at Birch Cavern. It was low-ceilinged and narrow, appearing to be a one-roomed shack. A single bed stood in one corner beside a rickety nightstand. There was a tiny stove across from him, next to a three-legged table and single chair looking ready to collapse at the first sign of weight being placed upon it.

Draco wondered if Wisp was actually staying there or if he simply used the place to conduct meetings in. Most likely the latter, he decided. Just off of Draco's case alone he was going to make a small fortune—the man did not hire his talents inexpensively. A broken-down shack in the middle of nowhere was not necessary with the kinds of prices Wisp charged.

But if he could give Draco answers, he would happily pay every Knut.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and he spun around to see a figure gradually appear into view as a Disillusionment Charm was lifted. The same chocolate-colored shaggy hair as before came into view, and Draco wondered if he always chose one disguise per case and stuck with it for consistency's sake.

"Draco Malfoy," the figure nodded, moving to settle into the ancient-looking chair, which surprisingly held. Draco wondered how much magic it was reinforced with.

"Wisp," he greeted, waving his wand to conjure his own straight-backed chair. He sank into it and eyed Wisp warily, trying to hide his pounding heart and struggling against the hope blooming inside that was convinced that the man before him held all the answers he had been seeking.

"This is a very interesting case you've sent me on," Wisp replied amiably, before continuing in a nudging tone, "Quite a tricky one, too, I might add."

Without a word, Draco pulled a heavy bag of gold from his robes and tossed it onto the table, where it landed with a loud clinking _thud_.

Apparently satisfied with the weighty sound of it, the other man turned back to face the blond. "It's been bloody difficult, this one," he confessed, shaking the hair from his hazel eyes. "Lotta dead ends, lotta shit that makes no sense. I've never actually seen anything like this."

At the admission, Draco's heart clenched painfully. Had the man been met with the same results as Potter—namely, none? Did he have nothing to offer Draco? No name to whisper to him, no direction to point him in? Was Draco going to continually be denied the vengeance he was so painfully owed?

But then he remembered Wisp's note: _I've found something that may interest you_. Even if the man did not have all the answers, he at least had _something_. And at that point, Draco would take anything.

"What did you find?" he asked, impatience splintering his tone.

"Well," Wisp smiled slightly, clearly proud of himself for what he was about to reveal, "I followed a messy little trail from the latest victim that I'll spare you the details about. Let's just say that it started with a broken strain of magic and led me to a name."

Draco's throat felt dry; he felt as if he couldn't swallow properly. The air was rubbing his throat arid with its greedy clawlike fingers as it scraped heavily into his lungs. What was the name? _What was the fucking name?_

"And now this is where it gets interesting," Wisp continued, still in that infuriatingly calm voice, as if his words weren't twisting Draco's insides together into crippling knots.

"What?" the blond breathed, the wearying combination of impatience and excitement and rage and pain and deep, agonizing sorrow making him feel as if he was a second away from shattering into dust, fracturing into specks so fine no part of him would ever be seen again. "What is the name?"

Wisp smiled a slow, lazy smile, and Draco clenched his fists tightly together in his lap to keep from lunging at the other man and shaking the answer loose from his maddeningly calm throat.

"You see," Wisp said, ignoring both the question asked and Draco's obvious impatience, "it gets interesting because the name is impossible. There's no way it could be him. But the magic can't lie, you see, so it has to be him."

"Who?" Draco demanded, impatience finally winning out. "Who the fuck is it? Who is guilty and who is to pay for this?"

With another leisurely smile, Wisp parted his lips and a single name fell from between them, shocking Draco into disbelief. _It couldn't be. That's fucking impossible_. But the look on Wisp's face assured him that, yes, it was quite possible, because yes, it was the answer Draco had been looking for. His brain kept replaying the sound of the name, almost as if he could force the letters to form themselves into the killer's _real_ identity. Because it couldn't be him. Could it? He was gone, gone forever.

Whatever Draco had been expecting, it was not _that._

The name, spoken to him in Wisp's soft voice, replayed through his mind one last time.

"Cyril Crabbe."

 

 _Cyril Crabbe._ The three syllables reverberated around Draco's shocked skull, freezing him to his chair. How was that true? How could that be?

"He's in Azkaban," the blond whispered, shaking his head. No, Wisp was clearly mistaken. The man had been in Azkaban since the trials just after the Final Battle. There was no way his magical signature could have been found at the scene of Pansy's attack. That had happened just outside of Diagon Alley, for Merlin's sake. The man was an easily recognizable Death Eater, he could not just go strolling around Diagon Alley without being noticed.

"That's what I thought as well," Wisp shrugged. "I can check for you if you like," he glanced at the bag of gold on the table, "but it won't come cheap. Anything regarding Azkaban is going to be tricky."

"Fine, whatever," Draco waved his hand impatiently. "Do you really think it could have been him?"

Shrugging again, Wisp shook the hair from his eyes. "His magic was definitely there, so he was definitely there. I'm still not sure if he was acting alone or if there were more involved. I'll find out about Azkaban first and determine if it's actually possible or not. If it is," he grinned wolfishly, exposing a thin sliver of gleaming white teeth, "then I begin tracking."

Nodding, Draco suppressed a shudder at both Wisp's fierce expression and the news he had imparted. Vince's father? Could it really be Vince's father?

He supposed the motivation and choice of victims made a sort of sense if one looked at things from a deranged viewpoint. Cyril clearly blamed the Slytherins for the death of his son. It was the only explanation that fit. He somehow got it in his mind that it was Theo's fault, Tracey's fault, _Pansy_ 's fault. But they were all innocent.

Draco knew whose fault it really was. It was his. His own.

Granted, a large part was also Vincent's, since he _had_ been the one to start the fire that nearly killed them all, but Draco had been the one to take him there. He had been the one to influence and lead Vincent, ever since they were children. Practically since infancy, even though Draco was the youngest of the three. He had been the leader and molded Vince into what he had become. Gregory, as well, but last Draco knew, unlike Vince, Greg had never attempted to kill anyone.

No, Vincent's behavior and death were at least partially to rest on Draco's shoulders.

And now he was responsible for four more deaths as a result.

"Is that everything?" he asked, staring directly at Wisp but not really seeing him.

Wisp nodded, tilting his head to peer at the blond. "For right now. I'll know more after Azkaban."

"Contact me the instant you know anything," Draco said in a low voice, gazing at Wisp through narrowed eyes.

The man gave a short nod and Draco rose from his uncomfortable chair, praying his limbs remained steady.

How was Cyril Crabbe possibly responsible?

As Draco stood and prepared to Disapparate, a sudden memory flashed through his mind of a time when he and Greg and Vince had all been children and playing in Vincent's bedroom. His father had stormed in out of nowhere, startling the boys as he bellowed about Vincent leaving his broomstick in the hallway again and him nearly tripping over it. Draco and Greg had stood off to the side, trying to ignore the sounds of Cyril's angry shouts as he yelled in Vince's face until tears were streaming down the boy's face.

Draco and Greg both flinched simultaneously at the sharp sound Cyril's palm made as it struck Vincent's cheek, the blow hard enough to knock him to the floor. They hardly dared breathe, trembling and fighting back tears of their own, until finally, Cyril left.

None of them said anything for a very long time. Then, Greg walked forward and sat on the floor next to Vince, where he lay curled up on his side in a ball. A slightly crumpled Chocolate Frog was pulled from Greg's pocket and wordlessly handed to the other boy, who sniffed before sitting up to accept it, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on his lap the entire time.

At that point, Draco had also walked forward to join them on the floor. He nudged Vince and asked him which card he got. Smiling slightly despite the puffy eyes and hand-shaped bruise darkening his cheek, Vince pulled the card from the box and told them, "Fucking Circe, _again_ ," before biting the head off the frog.

The memory caused a deep pang of anguish to echo through Draco and he knew that no, he was not the only one responsible for the way Vincent had ended up. His father had permanently damaged him and was now exacting vengeance for the results of his own actions.

Sighing internally, Draco stepped forward into a sharp twist and felt the familiar uncomfortable squeeze always accompanying Apparition. The view of the crumbling shack vanished to reveal the pale walls of his sitting room, dazzling sunshine streaming in through the windows and reflecting off the yellow of the walls and impossible whiteness of the furniture.

He walked to the nearest couch and sank onto it, not quite ready to face anybody just yet. He needed time to himself—time to think, time to plan, time to prepare. He needed the one thing that Cyril did not want him to have—time. He needed time to collect himself before seeing Harry, time before seeing—worse by far—Blaise, especially time before the inevitable happened when Blaise was bound to catch Draco on his own. That was a confrontation he was not prepared for, and yet knew would happen soon enough. Blaise would not allow things to lie silently as they had so far; especially not with the looks he had been sending the blond, despite how pointedly Draco had been ignoring him in return.

Or trying to, at any rate, damn the man.

But he needed _time_.

He needed time to grieve Pansy and time to miss his mother. Time to mourn the friends lost and time to mourn for what his life had become—would he never stop paying for the sins of his fathers? Would everything always come back to the way he had been raised by Lucius, the same as Lucius had been raised by his father? When had the pattern begun and was it possible to break it?

Fortunately for everyone, it was very possible to break, considering the fact that Draco had absolutely no plans to continue the Malfoy line, no matter what his father had drilled into him from a young age—that the Malfoy line is important above all else, and its continuance is the absolute priority of any Malfoy heir.

His father had also told him not to read Muggle literature.

Not in those specific words, of course, but the intention was all too clear. Thank Salazar he had been able to break away from so many of the lessons drilled into him in his childhood. The war had only reinforced that mental separation between the way he had been raised to view the world and the way he had actually begun seeing things, until all he felt now was a sort of sick nausea at the thought of his father having truly believed all of his own words and lessons, and endless, fucking endless lectures.

The man would now be able to recite them to the fucking bars in Azkaban.

Limbs held stiffly in a trancelike state, Draco sat as the sun passed gradually along the room. It felt far too bright for the mood he was in. And of course, it was only about to get worse.

With a sigh, he left the sitting room just in time to watch a strange man with peculiar hair exit the foyer, cross to the bottom of the marble staircase, and throw himself into the arms of Harry Potter.

 

As he watched Potter's arms wrap around the other man's skinny waist, Draco felt the sudden hysterical urge to laugh. The day had been so absurdly surreal, so nauseatingly unpredictable and erratic, and it was still barely midafternoon. His three-hour time limit with Potter had not even expired.

 _If the man would have fucking remembered at all,_ Draco thought angrily, watching him _continue_ to hug the stranger.

As if sensing his glare, Potter glanced over and immediately dropped his hold. "Draco!" he shouted, pulling back from the strange man to hurry to the blond's side, who grudgingly allowed himself to feel slightly better about Potter's immediate attentions.

"Are you all right?" he demanded, peering closely at the blond. "Fuck, I knew I shouldn't have let you go off by yourself like that! I swear to God, I don't care how many business deals I lose you, you are _not_ to disappear like that again!"

"Oh, really?" Draco raised an eyebrow. What was Potter's problem? Obviously, Draco was fine. "Going to send me to my room, as well?"

"Christ, if I fucking have to," Potter folded his arms, looking serious, and Draco felt a twinge of annoyance.

"I was hardly gone at all, Potter." His nostrils flared. "Calm the fuck down."

Potter's eyes flashed and he stepped closer. "Daphne was sent something earlier, not too long ago, actually. A present." His voice was angry and dangerously low. A pleasant shiver passed through Draco at the threatening timbre, but he reminded himself to focus on Potter's words. They were apparently important.

"A present?" he asked in disbelief. "So her mother sent her a present, so what?"

Despite his attempted concentration, he could focus on little else other than thoughts of Cyril Crabbe—where he was, what he was doing, how Draco could find him to exact painful, bloody revenge. He would make the time that Crabbe served under the Dark Lord look like fucking _fun_ by the time he was through with the man.

"It was a finger," Potter finished, tone darkening further.

Both the words and the tone put an immediate halt to Draco's revenge fantasies. A _finger_? "A finger?" he echoed. "Daphne was sent a _finger_?"

"A bloody finger in a box and a note that said 'soon'," Potter explained, sounding weary all of a sudden.

"Look, I just," the brunet sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I was just worried that it was a distraction or something, and it was really _you_ that they were going after."

"I'm fine," Draco replied in surprise. Was Potter really that worried about him? Daphne had been sent a severed finger and a message from a killer and Potter was worried about _Draco_?

The same Potter who still had his arms folded and was eyeing him suspiciously, clearly refusing to believe Draco's assurance that he was all right.

"Harry, I'm fine," he said gently, longing to reach out to stroke the other man's cheek but wisely keeping his hands to himself. He still was not sure how his touch would be received, especially when there was a stranger standing near the staircase, gazing at them oddly. Draco had just seen Potter hug the man, for Merlin's sake. He had no idea about Potter's orientation, his status, anything, really, regarding the man and his personal life.

How could he learn more about him? Draco wanted to so badly. He wanted to know _everything_.

"We should go upstairs," said Potter, a strange gleam in his eyes. "Oh, this is Caelix, by the way." He turned and nodded to the man still standing near the stairs. "Cae, this is Draco."

"Draco," the man grinned, tilting his head and continuing to eye Draco in that same peculiar way. "Cool name."

He heard the words, but Draco was having difficulty focusing on anything besides the colored bits of metal stuck through the other man's face. He had never seen so many piercings in a person's head before. There were countless pieces of jewelry sticking from the man's ears, as well as hoops around his lip and nose, and bars through his eyebrow. The man's bangs were longer than the rest of his spiky hair and were dyed a shockingly bright pink, but the rest of his scalp was bleached a horrendously offensive fake shade of platinum. On his feet was a pair of shoes so worn out and falling apart that Draco was convinced that magic must be the only thing still holding them together. His jeans were faded and wrapped tightly around his long thin legs like a second skin, below a clingy t-shirt depicting squiggly lines that Draco would guess to be mountains, above which were stamped the words JOY DIVISION.

Blinking, Draco tried to figure out what exactly it all meant.

It took him a moment to realize that the man had raised an eyebrow at Draco's blatant stare. "Did you go to Hogwarts?" he blurted, desperate to stop the flush from creeping up his neck.

"Unfortunately not, though Harry's stories make it sound terribly fucking exciting," the other man sighed. "I, to my eternal regret, had a disappointingly boring private education. I had tutors all throughout my childhood and adolescence, and was apprenticed into my current job at a rather tender age."

"Cae's only nineteen," Potter interrupted, his voice taking on the same smug tone parent's voices take on when bragging about the accomplishments of their children.

"Isn't nineteen a little young for your job?" Draco asked in surprise, not trying to be rude, just curious, as Mother always encouraged him to be.

"Cae's a fucking genius," Potter chuckled, nudging the man's arm. "He's been there a few years now, got hired not too long after Ron and I officially became Aurors."

"Yes, I've heard," Draco said mildly. "Potter here seems to have the utmost faith in your abilities." He nodded at Caelix, who tilted his head and grinned widely at Harry, who shrugged and smiled back.

Draco felt his stomach tighten in envy.

"Well, P," Caelix said, reaching out to place a hand around Potter's upper arm and squeeze lightly, causing another surge of jealousy to sweep through Draco at the sight. "Lead the way, then, eh? Let's see how much faith you still have in me after I'm through here."

Shaking his head, Potter began to lead the other two up the stairs. Caelix asked him several questions along the way, but the brunet informed him that he had not been there when the boxes had been delivered and that Weasley, Daphne, and Blaise were all upstairs together and knew more.

As they drew closer to their destination, Draco's dread grew more and more, until his heart was beating a painful bruise into the lining of his ribcage.

Unsure of what to expect, he was surprised when they entered the room to find only Weasley, who was seated and clearly waiting for them.

"Cae," he greeted, rising to his feet.

"Where are Daphne and Blaise?" Draco wondered, glancing around.

Weasley's eyes flicked to the bedroom door, cracked open slightly. "Zabini took her into the other room, you know, so she wouldn't have to see us open the boxes again."

The answer surprised Draco. Had Blaise really done that for her? Had he actually wanted to comfort her? Was he with her at that moment? That seemed oddly considerate of him—almost suspiciously so.

"So, Ronald," Caelix interrupted his thoughts. "Tell me everything, then."

Weasley began speaking, explaining how he had been conversing with Granger on the Floo when he heard Daphne's scream and rushed next door to find a severed pinky in a velvet box, along with the note Potter had mentioned downstairs and a second box that nobody had yet opened.

Nodding grimly, Caelix turned his attention to the boxes and the parchment on the table. He pulled up a chair and bent toward the first package, chanting in a low voice and flicking his wand in odd jabbing motions. The air around the box glowed a dull burnt orange before fading away.

Apparently satisfied, Caelix flicked his wand and the lid flipped open, revealing to Draco's disgust a bloody stump of a finger. His stomach roiled and he took an automatic step back at the sight.

Had Cyril done that? Sent that? Chopped it off the unwilling victim himself? Was this message just as much for Draco as it was for Daphne?

"How were the boxes sent?" he asked suddenly, startling everybody except Caelix, who had not even glanced up but was instead murmuring words over the finger.

Weasley was the one who answered. "Daphne said it was outside on the balcony railing when she entered the room."

"So nobody saw an owl drop it off?" Potter cut in, voice uneasy as he glanced around.

"There's no way anybody would be able to enter through a bedroom," Draco reminded him. "The wards will keep everybody who is not Daphne out, unless she extends an open invitation, such as now," he gestured around. "And it's impossible to enter through the balcony, regardless. The ground's wards prevent such a thing, besides the fact that whoever sent it would first have to get past the gates and the wards there. These grounds are not easily breached, I assure you."

Potter did not look completely convinced, but he nodded and focused his attention on Caelix once more, who had vanished the box containing the finger and was now pointing his wand at the parchment and chanting what sounded to be the same strange words. The parchment glowed a rosy pink—honestly, did the colors actually mean anything or was the man simply showing off for Potter?—before it faded and the bleached head turned to address Weasley.

"And this last one hasn't been opened, correct?" the fake platinum hair nodded toward the other velvet box, slightly smaller and more rounded than the first one had been.

"Yeah, we wanted to wait," Weasley replied.

Cracking his neck, Caelix turned back to the table and began his peculiar incantations once again.

"Did you find anything today?" Draco asked quietly, stepping closer to Potter.

"I'm not sure yet," the brunet sighed. "I don't think I'll know for at least a couple of days."

For a moment, Draco thought about confessing his knowledge of Cyril Crabbe to Potter, telling him all about Wisp and the impossible results, and the chance that Draco might know who was behind it all. But he swallowed both the urge and the words, knowing that the Aurors would only get in Wisp's way and slow everything down, if not give everything away and tip Crabbe off to the fact that they were on to him.

No, this needed to be handled with stealth and finesse, and Wisp embodied both of those traits perfectly.

"Well, if I can be of any assistance in anything, Potter, let me know, all right?" said Draco instead.

The other man turned to face him, smiling softly and shaking his head, and at first Draco thought he was refusing his offer of assistance, but then the brunet spoke. "Harry," he reminded gently, eyes impossibly kind as they swept over Draco. Eyes so green, so deep, so endlessly benevolent and compassionate that it made Draco's own eyes burn and he blinked furiously against sudden tears.

How was Harry able to have such an effect on him? How was it possible that with just with one look, Draco was so affected?

"Jesus fucking Christ," a low voice swore softly, and Draco and Potter glanced up automatically to Caelix, who had straightened and was eyeing the table with pure disgust etched onto his face between the scattered piercings. Draco followed his gaze down to the velvet box, round lid flipped open to reveal a single eyeball nestled inside, purpled and bloodshot and appearing as if it had been torn straight from the victim's face.

With a chalky horror rising in his throat he stepped closer, drawn in by the sight of the grotesque eyeball lying perfectly still and unmoving atop the thick velvet. As he neared, his breath caught sharply, painfully, as he noticed dark green surrounding the pupil, streaked through with hazel specks. Eyes so familiar he could practically feel them boring into his own.

As he continued to drift closer in a terrified daze, he realized that the horror he felt rising in his throat was actually bile instead and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Pibby popped up before him with a bucket clutched in his tiny fists. He placed it beneath Draco's head and patted his forehead with a cool wet rag, as he had done the first day Potter had shown up.

As he had to do now.

Draco couldn't seem to stop throwing up, wave after wave of nausea sweeping through him, clenching his insides between burning fists of disgust and emptying his stomach entirely. He could feel Potter above him, murmuring to him, touching him, rubbing calming circles into his back and brushing the damp strands of hair away from his sweaty forehead, but he could not look at him.

It would not matter, even if he could somehow find it within himself to move his gaze. He would not see the man.

Because although Draco's eyes were squeezed shut, all he could see was the sight of the single eyeball, nestled so snugly in emerald velvet.

All he could feel was a numb sort of horror as he gazed into Pansy's unseeing eye.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are we thinking so far, internet? Not too much gore, right? Of course not! But poor Pansy :( I do so hate to be the one to do these things to her. I'd say that this slumber party is not exactly running smoothly. We did get all the Gryffindor boys in this chapter, though, so things aren't all bad!
> 
> And speaking of things that aren't all bad, who thinks that nine chapters of foreplay is long enough? Cos if you do, you're in luck next update when things take a turn for the decidedly M-rated between Harry and Draco. And if anyone has missed Blaise, don't worry, there will be plenty of him next chapter as well! The complicated web of romance that Harry, Caelix, Draco, and Blaise have found themselves tangled in is about to get only more complex.
> 
> And on that final word I say Ciao, Darlings!


	10. When I Am Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I thought I was gonna have this chapter up way sooner than this, so I apologize to the internet. December was pure insane and some of that insanity just happened to leak into January. I hope the delicious ice cream sundae of drama you're about to consume will make up for it :) With a smutty cherry on top
> 
> p.s. thank you to all you beautiful humans who have left reviews =] I adore you and your lovely words

_When I am dead, my dearest,_  
_Sing no sad songs for me;_  
_Plant thou no roses at my head,_  
_Nor shady cypress tree:_  
_Be the green grass above me_  
_With showers and dewdrops wet;_  
_And if thou wilt, remember,_  
_And if thou wilt, forget._

 _I shall not see the shadows,_  
_I shall not feel the rain;_  
_I shall not hear the nightingale_  
_Sing on, as if in pain:_  
_And dreaming through the twilight_  
_That doth not rise nor set,_  
_Haply I may remember,_  
_And haply may forget._

"When I Am Dead, My Dearest"—Christina Rossetti

 

* * *

 

 

"Jesus fucking Christ," Caelix exclaimed.

At the sound, Harry glanced over automatically, to wish a moment later that he hadn't.

A single eyeball lay nestled inside the velvet box, reminding Harry horribly of Mad-Eye. Only this one was a real human eyeball, just _sitting_ there. Whose was it? Who did it belong to? Triggs, maybe? The pinky was male, maybe both body parts were from him. But no, in the autopsy photo, he had had both eyes.

Whose, then?

Harry had not even realized that Malfoy had moved from his side until the blond was nearly to the table, only glancing up when Draco inhaled sharply. Harry reached out to stop him from getting too close, but the next second the man had fallen to his knees and was gasping wildly.

Pibby popped up before him and placed a bucket beneath Draco's hyperventilating mouth. He vomited into the bucket just as Harry reached him, dropping onto his knees beside him and rubbing circles into his back, just as the man had done for Harry such a short time ago. He could feel Draco trembling beneath his hand and began murmuring softly into his ear; he wasn't even sure what he was saying, all he knew was that he was worried and he wanted Draco to be okay. With gentle fingers, he combed the fringe back from Draco's forehead, firmly ignoring the fact that he was certain Ron and Caelix were watching. At that moment, he didn't care. Malfoy was obviously not okay and Harry was comforting him.

And he wasn't the only one.

"Draco!" Zabini exclaimed worriedly, and Harry glanced up to see him in the open doorway, before he was suddenly on the other side of Malfoy, rubbing the blond's other arm and lower back. His eyes flashed up to the table Caelix was standing in front of, and Harry saw it the instant Zabini noticed the eyeball. His entire body froze and his dark face paled dramatically.

Draco finally stopped retching and Pibby vanished the bucket with a snap of his fingers. Malfoy sat between Zabini and Harry, crying quietly, head bowed nearly to the floor.

Looking toward Ron, Harry noticed that he was staring at Draco in wide-eyed awe, albeit horrified wide-eyed awe. It was a feeling that Harry understood—it was how he had felt the very first time he had seen Draco Malfoy cry.

But this…this was so different, and watching the man's grief made Harry's heart constrict painfully and his eyes prickled in sympathy. With his chin, Harry made a jerking motion toward the door, one that Ron noticed and nodded at. He looked at Caelix meaningfully, and the two men left the room as quietly as they could, shooting sympathetic looks at Malfoy the whole way out.

"Draco," Zabini murmured, wrapping one arm around Malfoy's back and pulling him into his chest, away from Harry's light touch; Harry's palms felt cold.

He hoped in vain that Draco would shove away from Zabini, whether because Harry didn't trust Zabini, Malfoy obviously couldn't trust Zabini, or if because Harry secretly wanted the blond to return to _his_ arms, but whatever the reason behind the desire, Malfoy did not pull from Zabini's embrace. He tucked his face into the man's chest instead, who pressed a kiss to the top of Draco's head.

Harry felt strange, watching the scene in front of his eyes play itself out. He felt as if he should be objecting, for Draco's sake, if not anything else. After all, the man had made it more than clear that Zabini's proximity made him uncomfortable. But how could Harry interrupt them when Malfoy was obviously grieving and Zabini appeared—Harry grudgingly admitted to himself—to be helping?

Zabini had pulled Draco from his bowed position to rest against his chest, forehead tucked into the man's dark throat. Both of his arms were wrapped securely around the blond. Draco's eyes were shut, tears still steadily leaking from between closed eyelids as Zabini rocked him softly, stroking his hair and murmuring words that Harry could not hear. He felt as if he was intruding, but he felt uneasy about leaving Draco alone with Zabini.

As if hearing his thoughts, Zabini glanced up sharply. "I have this under control, Potter," he said in a low voice, hands never ceasing their movements over Malfoy's hair and back.

With a swallow, Harry nodded and rose from the floor, glancing back over his shoulder once before leaving the room. Zabini was resting his cheek against the top of Draco's head and was whispering soothingly. One of Malfoy's arms was wrapped around the dark-skinned man's waist, and the fingers of the other were fisted in the chest of Zabini's robes.

The sight caused a painful throb to echo hollowly through Harry's chest, and he quickly turned away.

 

"Is he all right?" Ron asked in a low voice after Harry joined them. The redhead had already cast a privacy ward around them.

Shrugging helplessly at Ron, Harry turned to Caelix instead. "Was Parkinson missing an eye?"

Caelix blinked at the question and nodded. "All of them were missing different body parts, even Triggs."

"Was that his pinky?" Ron asked, looking sickened.

Caelix shook his head. "The unfortunate owner was Theodore Nott." His voice was somber, hovering atop thinly veiled repulsion.

Nott? Harry had never really spoken to Nott, had no idea who he had been. The boy's father Harry had dealt with a time or two, but he had had almost no contact with Theodore. And the reason he would now never get the chance made Harry's stomach lurch.

"Did you find anything on either of the boxes?" he asked, attempting to distract himself from the thoughts twisting through his gut.

"No," Caelix said quietly. "But there are still some in-depth spells I want to check them for, see if there was any sort of print or mark left on them that I can match up to anything we've got already, that sort of thing."

Something moved in the corner of Harry's vision, and his head snapped up. He had nearly been too focused on Caelix's words to notice Zabini exiting the room with Draco cradled tightly in his arms. Hastening over to them, Harry noticed that the blond appeared to have stopped crying.

"Is he okay?" he demanded as he neared the two men, fighting the urge to yank Zabini to a stop.

"I had Pibby fetch him a Calming Draught, as well as a vial of Dreamless Sleep." Zabini glanced down at the blond in his arms and Harry noticed his gaze soften. "I think he's had a bit of a rough day, let him sleep some of it off, Potter." He spoke in a quiet voice, one that Harry could not argue with. Maybe, despite Harry's instincts telling him not to trust Zabini, maybe the man really did care about Draco.

The thought twisted Harry's insides even tighter.

With a hard swallow and short nod, he stepped backwards away from Zabini and allowed the man to turn away, walk away with Draco held so closely in his arms.

Harry felt another hollow pang shoot through his chest.

When he finally turned from the aching sight of Zabini carrying Draco into the blond's bedroom and shutting the door firmly behind them, the first thing Harry noticed was that Ron and Caelix were no longer in the hall.

With a sigh, he headed back to Daphne's rooms, noting with relief once inside that Caelix had sent the box containing the eye to the lab and the table was now empty of it. Ron was nowhere in sight, and Harry assumed that he was in the bedroom with Daphne, keeping her company now that Zabini was with Draco.

The doors to the balcony were thrown wide and Caelix was bent eye-level with the wide marble railing, cold grey surface drenched in both afternoon sunlight and Cae's magic. He was murmuring to the stone and tapping his wand against it, looking for Merlin knew what. As Harry neared, he slowed; he loved watching Caelix work. He rarely had any idea of the sorts of spells used or ever really knew at all what Cae was doing, but it was always fascinating to watch. The man didn't seem to speak his magic so much as sing it in a soft voice, a gentle crooning that Harry had never really heard used in spells before, excepting once.

For some reason it sometimes—not very often, just when Cae hit a certain low pitch—perversely reminded him of the sound of Snape's healing spell, the one he used when he had to seal Draco back together from his position lying bloody and shaking on the bathroom floor, cold tile covered in water from the exploded sinks, broken glass everywhere from the cracked mirrors, crimson splashes of blood staining the stone beneath the boy's flailing body; Malfoy sobbing, clutching at his chest, _gasping_ , he couldn't _breathe_ , he was _dying,_ Harry had done that, cut him open, _killed_ him…

"Harry!"

Blinking, Harry realized that there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Caelix's face was in front of his own, so close and staring at him in concern.

"Are you all right?" he asked, hand still gripping Harry's shoulder tightly.

"Yeah, fine," Harry replied automatically, blinking and rubbing his left temple with one hand. It had been such an exhausting day, and it was only half over.

"Is it…" Caelix glanced away for a moment before swinging his turquoise eyes back to Harry,"Is it about Draco?"

"No," Harry sighed. Draco was only a part of it. "It's everything, Cae, it's all of it." He ran a hand through his hair. The fingers on his shoulder were still gripping him. "It's just…" he struggled to find words to describe what "it" all was. "It's just fucking all of it, you know?" The syllables were heavy and felt like stones on Harry's tongue. His voice was weary—just as weary as his body felt. His bones felt weighed down and ancient; his eyes were sore and exhausted, as though they had just _seen_ too much. They had witnessed just one too many atrocities and were now suffering through the impossible task of being asked to view yet another terror.

It seemed sometimes as if his eyes had only ever taken in evil.

The case was only getting more horrifying and more complex by the day. He was now being indirectly sent the mutilated body parts of his murdered classmates.

At the reminder, his stomach roiled.

"Harry, I…" Cae began, hesitating as he chewed his bottom lip nervously.

The next second, his arms were wrapped around Harry's neck and their chests were pressed flush as he hugged the Auror. "Harry, I'm sorry," he murmured, holding the brunet tightly. "I'm sorry this is your life. I'm sorry that darkness keeps following you, and horrible things keep finding you."

Unsure of how to speak past the lump that had suddenly sprung up in his throat, Harry returned the embrace, the contact reminding him of the way Caelix had thrown his arms around Harry in the main entrance only such a short time ago, announcing that he had good news.

And that had been when Draco had shown up, and Harry's concern had kicked into overdrive—as it was again at the thought of the blond. Was he all right? Would he be all right with Zabini? Should Harry have gone with them? Made sure that Draco was okay before trusting him alone and unconscious with the other man? Should he go there now? Barge in and make sure? Just in case? Or should he let him sleep?

No, Harry thought slowly. Despite his feelings that Zabini was not to be trusted, Harry had recognized the genuine concern for the blond in Zabini's touch, his worried gaze.

It made Harry's stomach tighten all over again.

"I'm fine, Cae," Harry sighed, loosening his hold around Caelix's midsection. "At least I can tell myself I've always seen worse." Had he? He wasn't sure anymore; it was not something he liked to compare.

"Exactly what I'm sorry about," said Caelix, unlocking his arms from around Harry's neck to slide his palms down to rest on Harry's chest. The touch was obviously meant to be comforting, but Harry wasn't sure what to make of the proximity. Caelix was so close; Harry could see every individual black eyelash. His heart was pounding and he wasn't exactly sure why. It was just Cae. Harry had known him for two years, after all, why should he suddenly feel nervous around the man? But he did feel nervous, and he was sure that Caelix could feel the hammering of his heart where it beat a rhythmic dent into his chest.

Ron's voice flashed through his mind suddenly, the words only a few days old, but it seemed like ages: _Cae's only got eyes for you_. Harry had scoffed at Ron's words then, certain that the redhead had been joking, or overdramatizing the situation, but now he wasn't so sure anymore.

And he had no idea how he felt about it.

He had never really consciously thought of another man like that—excepting the new recent images of Draco that Zabini's words had put into Harry's mind, but that was hardly his fault—and now that he was faced with it, he was at a loss. He didn't find the idea disgusting, or anything even close. But did he feel that way about Caelix? How could he be certain? He hadn't felt anything for anybody since Ginny, and even then he had known for a while that his feelings toward her had mellowed considerably.

With certainty, he knew that he cared about Caelix, but was it anything _more_?

He studied the face hovering just slightly above him, Caelix standing several inches taller. The face was so familiar and all the emotions associated with seeing him were all positive. Harry studied the colored piercings, the dark eyebrows and bleached hair, the recognizable magenta bangs glowing in the sunlight.

Caelix was definitely attractive, Harry decided. He was funny and had a nice smile and a charming laugh, as well as a pleasant personality and deep turquoise eyes. But Harry just wasn't _sure._

He hadn't realized that Caelix had gotten closer until that moment. The turquoise eyes that Harry had been admiring flicked down to his mouth and back up, and Harry knew. He knew that Caelix was going to kiss him. He knew, and yet he did nothing to stop it. Was that a sort of answer? He had no idea.

And just as Cae had started to lessen the short distance between them, Harry heard his name called and whipped his head around automatically.

"Harry!" Ron said loudly, walking out onto the balcony and stopping short at the sight that greeted him. Caelix's palms were flat against Harry's chest, Harry's arms still loosely—and just the slightest bit uncomfortably—holding his waist. They were standing too close to be easily explained, and Harry could feel a flush creeping across his entire upper body.

Breaking the embrace, he stepped out of Caelix's touch and willed his heart to stop racing. "Er," he said awkwardly, not sure what to follow it with.

"Sorry," Ron said, eyes flicking between the two men. "I'll just, uh," he glanced over his shoulder toward the room behind him, "just check on Daphne again, shall I?"

And with that, he turned and went back inside, quietly shutting the balcony doors behind him and leaving an odd ringing silence in his departure.

"I, er," Harry raked a hand through his hair nervously and took a step back. "Did you find anything?" He gestured lamely toward the marble railing.

Caelix raised one dark eyebrow and said nothing for several long seconds. "No," he said finally, turning from Harry to face the railing. The action left Harry feeling unexplainably guilty, like he had done something hurtful on purpose.

"Wait, Cae," he began, unsure of how to follow it up. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder and gently turned him back to face the Auror. Caelix glanced over at him hopefully, shyly, and Harry felt the burning guilt intensify.

"What is it, Harry?" he asked softly, his head now turned completely in Harry's direction.

"I—I dunno," Harry stammered. Every passing minute was only serving to confuse him even more; he had no answers for any of his own earlier questions. "I dunno, Caelix, I just…" he dropped his hold on the other man's shoulder. "I just don't know." Taking several steps away, he sighed and folded his arms atop the marble railing, burying his face into the blessed darkness that his limbs afforded. "I'm sorry," he added, words slightly muffled.

"Don't be sorry, Harry," Caelix murmured above him as one hand began lightly rubbing Harry's upper back. "It's all right."

Harry let out a shaky laugh. "It's not, though. None of it is. This is all just so fucking _much_ , you know? All of this: the attacks, the lack of results, all the shit just from today!" He kept his head lowered, speaking into the warm skin of his forearms. "It's just…" his voice lowered, and he could almost feel Caelix lean in closer to catch his words. "It's just…right now, Cae. Just, right now is just…too _much_ , you know? There's just too much." By the time he finished speaking, his words were a whisper.

Caelix squeezed his shoulder once before removing his touch completely. "I understand, Harry. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to place any more unnecessary pressure on you."

The quiet words did not mask the guilt that Harry could hear buried in the apology. "No, Cae," he lifted his head and glanced over his shoulder. Caelix had moved several feet away as though attempting to show Harry that he was capable of giving him space. "Everything's just getting to me." He paused, trying to find the words to describe his jumbled feelings. "It's nothing to do with you personally, I swear, it's just…" he paused again.

"Too much?" Caelix finished helpfully, smiling softly as he looked away. "Really, Harry, I'm the one who should be sorry, not you."

Harry opened his mouth to argue with that, but before he could, Caelix continued speaking. "So, I found no magical trace anywhere out here," he said enthusiastically, turning back to the railing, but Harry could hear the force he was putting behind his usual cheer. "So I've concluded that the packages were delivered by owl as opposed to magical means."

"Unless they were delivered by hand," Harry mused, glancing over the railing. It was a long drop below.

"Didn't Draco say that it was impossible to get past the wards, though?" Caelix said. "And I tested them when I first arrived, they seemed solid." His gaze was directed out over the grounds, and Harry wondered if he was staring out and pondering the question, or if he was attempting to avoid looking at the brunet.

"I'll speak to him about the wards when he wakes up." Harry felt guilty but was not sure how he could have handled the situation differently. Until he was certain of his feelings, anything that could be construed as leading Cae on would just be cruel.

"Right," Cae nodded. "Well, I've tested the balcony, so, I suppose I should get back to the Ministry now." He stepped past Harry toward the doors leading back into Daphne's sitting room.

"Wait!" His guilt wouldn't allow Caelix to just walk away like that, not when he was hurt. Harry had never wanted to hurt him. "I…" he paused, suddenly unwilling to bring up what had happened between them earlier. "What was your good news, from when you arrived?" he asked instead. "You never told me."

A smile flashed across Cae's face as he turned to face Harry. "Ah, yes. The news. Well, I finally fucking pieced together a strand of magic that I was able to differentiate from the rest."

"Differentiate? You mean you can identify the source?" The words started out shocked but quickly grew in excitement. "You know who was there?" Had Caelix found a name, possibly? Had he found one of the attackers? Were they a step closer to solving everything?

"I don't have a name yet," Cae admitted, but there was a proud glint in his eyes. "But we're close, Harry, I can feel it, we're so fucking close." His fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to reach out to Harry.

"You'll find it, Cae," Harry smiled. "I know you will."

"Thank you," he inclined his head, still smiling. "I'll let you know the moment I do, all right?"

"All right," Harry said softly. He was not sure what else to say, or if there was any sort of way to get past the lingering awkwardness hanging stagnant in the air between them.

"I…" Caelix tucked his bangs behind one ear nervously and took a deep breath before stretching out one hand to stroke his fingers down Harry's cheek, so lightly that Harry almost didn't feel it. "I'll see you later, P." And with that, he was gone, already beyond the balcony doors and striding across the room.

With a painful swallow, Harry turned his gaze back to the expansive grounds stretched beneath him. Thoughts kept swirling through his mind of Draco's grief, mutilated body parts, Zabini's earlier words, Caelix's hurt expression that he had tried to keep hidden, the way Draco had turned his face into Zabini's chest as the man held him closely, comforting him more intimately than Harry had been able to. Everything felt as if it had all become far too much far too quickly, and he could feel a faint pounding beginning in his temples.

With a drawn-out sigh, he left the bright warmth of the balcony and once again entered the manor and the endless mysteries contained within.

 

* * *

 

With a grimace, Draco sat up slowly, blinking and clutching his head. Why was his entire skull pounding? Why was it dark outside? He didn't remember going to bed, yet he would recognize his mattress anywhere. His bedroom was dark but the door was open, and he could see flickering orange light spilling beyond the doorway and pooling into a lambent puddle that stretched eerily towards him. The fireplace in his private sitting room was crackling with flames, he could hear it. Was somebody out there? Was somebody in Draco's rooms with him—while he _slept_?

Before he could begin to work himself into a panic, a shadow fell across the doorway, blocking the light from the flames and a familiar—infuriatingly so—voice spoke, "You're awake." Blaise's tone was soft, worried, and Draco did not like it. Blaise felt _sympathy_ for him, did he?

"What the fuck?" Draco ground out—not one of his more eloquent moments, but his head was pounding and his throat felt tight and painfully sharp, like it had been rubbed raw with sand as he slept.

"I'm sorry," Blaise apologized, and Draco wondered how much of the apology was real. "You had a panic attack, love, and I wasn't sure what else to do. I thought it best if you could sleep for a bit." As he spoke, he made his way gradually into the room and across it to stand next to the bed. "You scared me, Draco," he whispered, sinking down to sit near Draco's hip. "I've never seen you like that before, it was…" He raised a hand and stroked Draco's cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers. "It hurt to watch," he finished, voice still the same soft whisper.

"I…" Draco's words seemed to get caught in his swollen throat, or perhaps the shards of glass that his parched windpipe was filled with had chopped the words into pieces and silence before they could reach his lips. His throat was on fire and his head felt as if it had been trampled on. He could neither speak nor think clearly, and the light touch of Blaise's fingers against his cheek was only thickening the cottony haze that could be felt clinging to him with a throbbing tenacity.

"My head is fucking killing me," he groaned, lying back on the pillow, out of Blaise's reach.

"Here," Blaise flicked his wand and a glass bottle zoomed into his palm with a sharp slap. "It's a Pain Relieving Potion. You must be feeling awful, a Calming Draught on top of Dreamless Sleep, all to counter the effects of such an intense panic attack?"

Even through the thick fog separating his brain from the rest of his body, Draco remembered that he did not trust Blaise, and longed to test the bottle to make sure it was indeed a Pain Relieving Potion, but he had no idea where his wand was and was in far too much agony to think clearly enough to do so.

Sitting up, he accepted the vial before tossing back the slightly bitter contents, and he sighed as the hammering in his head began to fade and he was able to think more clearly.

"The two potions together would have been fine," Draco said angrily, rubbing his temples as he waited for the pain in his throat to also disappear, "if somebody had made sure I drank some water along with them."

Blaise smiled at him gently. "Getting you to drink the potions was difficult enough, love."

"Stop," Draco ground out. He had not paused the motion of his fingers rubbing circles into his temples, even though his headache had faded away. What was Blaise doing there? What did he expect? What was he hoping would happen? Draco was in no mood to attempt to deal with any of his velvet lies or try to fight any breath-catching seductions.

The day had already been so long, he just needed time to himself.

He needed space to think everything through, to be able to just _breathe_ , to relax. He needed time and space to come apart, to take a break from holding himself, binding himself together so tightly in the presence of strangers in his home. He needed time to sort out his mistrust of Blaise and all the hurt associated with thinking about him. He needed time to sort out his attraction to Potter and all the blistering hope associated with thinking about him. He needed time just for _himself_ , so much was happening so quickly. So much had changed so suddenly, his entire life shifted so drastically, so unalterably. He needed time to find himself again, center himself and figure out just who exactly he had become, because something that affected his life that fundamentally would have affected his whole being just as surely. But who was he? How much of a stranger to himself was he now?

How much of him was the Draco that Blaise had known? How much was the Draco that Potter knew?

He was not quite sure why he was comparing the two men, setting them up as mirror opposites in his mind; it was not as if Potter had expressed any romantic interest in him, especially considering he was there for the sole reason of his job. It was a necessity of work, nothing personal; it was not as if Potter would have been there _voluntarily_.

With a flash, Potter's words from his second visit tumbled through Draco's brain: _Ron and I volunteered for it…we know you…I've known you for ten years…_

Potter and Weasley had volunteered to be there. They could have turned down the entire case; nobody would have blamed Potter, given his history with the Slytherins and Draco in general. Nobody would force the Chosen One to undertake any assignment he wanted no part of.

But what was the motivating factor behind the urge to protect Draco and the others? That was the question he so desperately needed an answer to. _Why_ was Potter doing all of it? Why was he there, watching out for Draco, worrying about him and speaking to him like a friend? Why was he asking about Draco's history with his ex-lovers and wondering who the blond's favorite poets were?

Why was he in Draco's thoughts so often?

Although, that last question was hardly anything new. Even when they had been younger, Draco had been slightly obsessed with the boy—in a sworn enemy sort of way, of course. He refused to feel ashamed, however, since Potter had stalked him for nearly the entirety of their sixth year. But his feelings toward the skinny brunet had not been anything resembling attraction, something he was quite certain was mutual in regards to Potter as well.

Yet now…

With a start, he remembered that Blaise was sitting only inches away and was currently staring at him with a determined expression. _Fuck._ Draco knew that expression. Blaise wanted to talk. He had not been deterred by Draco's silence and was using the time when Draco was weak and emotionally vulnerable to his advantage, the bastard.

"No," he said sharply before Blaise could open his familiar, lovely mouth; before any velvet words could slide seductively from between his dark, full lips. His mouth had always been Draco's favorite part of him: the feel of it on his own, the bewitching words that dripped so charmingly from between his lips in a deep voice, the glide of his mouth across Draco's skin, kissing him everywhere, wrapped around him, the way Draco would cry out his name, the sight of the other man's perfect chocolate-colored skin curled around his own impossibly pale body, how beautiful Draco had always found the contrast to be.

But then again, Blaise had always been beautiful. It was how he was able to get away with being such a bastard.

With a wrench, Draco jerked his thoughts back to the man sitting so near him. "No," he repeated, flinging the blankets aside and shoving Blaise off the bed so Draco could slip from it.

"Draco," said Blaise, planting himself firmly in the blond's way. "We need to talk." He lowered his voice, "Please, love."

"You don't get to fucking call me that," Draco snapped, giving up on trying to shove Blaise from his path and marching around him instead into the sitting room of Draco's chambers.

"Draco, please!" Blaise caught up to him quickly, pulling him to a stop. "I want to explain! I want to apologize." His voice had softened, but the last word made Draco's eyes narrow dangerously.

"You already did," he reminded the other man coldly. "Right before I started blasting your belongings into ash, remember?"

"I deserved it," Blaise agreed, one corner of his mouth tugged up ruefully, but his eyes appeared sad, even in the dim light of the flickering fire.

"Yes, you fucking did," Draco agreed, crossing his arms and glaring. "Take comfort in the fact that it was _all your fucking fault_ , and get the hell out of my room." The words were followed by a step backwards and a furious glare.

"No," Blaise said simply, copying Draco's posture and folding his arms. "Not until I say what I came here to tell you."

"I don't have to fucking listen to it if I don't want to," Draco growled. How dare Blaise just show up and decide when they were ready to talk? How dare Blaise think he had the right to make any demands of Draco, after everything he had done? How dare he show up looking just as devastatingly handsome as always, speaking in that same sensual, confident way he had of holding and conducting himself? How dare he have made Draco feel such intense feelings, only to discard them so frivolously, toss them aside so easily, spit on them so callously?

How could he betray him so cruelly?

"Please, Draco," Blaise pleaded quietly, in a tone of voice that Draco was not sure he had ever heard from the man. "I'm sorry, all right? I'm so sorry, you have no idea, love, no idea how sorry I am—"

"Don't I?" Draco's eyes flashed as he stepped closer. "Do you think it even FUCKING compares to how sorry I was?!" Anger pounded through him in hot spikes, fury crackling along the length of his body almost visibly. "Sorry for TRUSTING you!" He shoved Blaise away from himself, not caring if he was shouting. After what Blaise had done to him, the man was lucky Draco was not cursing him into tiny jagged pieces. "Sorry for allowing you into my LIFE!" He took a step forward and shoved Blaise again. The man did nothing to fight him, only caught his balance as he stumbled back several steps. "Sorry you ever made me feel…" The words trailed off into a broken gasp.

"Made you feel what?" Blaise breathed, taking a tiny step forward. "What did I make you feel, Draco?"

"Nothing but revulsion," Draco sneered, but it was rather watery and felt far from his best.

"No, that's not what you were going to say."

"You don't fucking know anything about what I'm going to say," Draco spat. "Or about me. If you did, then you would have realized that when I ask for fidelity, I fucking well mean it!"

"I didn't realize, then, Draco!" Blaise exclaimed, sounding pained. "I didn't realize until it was too late…"

"Fuck your realizations—"

"When I heard that you were looking for me," Blaise interrupted as though Draco had not said a word, "I can't even tell you how happy I felt at the thought that you were trying to get in contact with me. It surprised me, the depth of the feeling," he admitted, not even blinking as he eyed Draco. "The depth of the happiness at the hope that you maybe wanted to reconcile, the depth of how much I truly sincerely painfully missed you. I don't think I even realized until that moment, Draco."

Despite himself, Draco had frozen as he listened to the words and, without making a conscious decision to speak, he heard himself asking the question, "Realized what?"

"How much I love you," Blaise whispered, before crossing the short distance between them and kissing Draco firmly on the mouth.

At the contact, Draco felt as if the paths connecting his brain and body had been severed, leaving him unable to do anything other than stand there in shock. Did Blaise say that he _loved_ him? They had never once, in the entire year they had been together, ever exchanged the words _I love you_ before. Considering Draco's home life and upbringing, the word _love_ was a scarcely heard word, one he was sure he had only ever heard from his mother, and only on rare occasions. And with the way Blaise had been raised to witness his own mother going through husband after husband, getting married every other week, he had clearly not been raised to value the sanctity of a relationship or any sort of concept of the abstract term of _love_.

Did Blaise truly love Draco? Had Draco loved Blaise? Did he love him still, despite the anger? He had no idea. How did anybody know whether or not they were in love—or had been in love, as the case may be? How was Blaise certain? Just because he missed Draco and felt happy that he thought Draco had been looking for him to possibly try to fix things?

Blaise pressed closer, melting into Draco, who stood as stiffly as a marble statue. Undeterred, Blaise pressed kisses down his chin, across his throat, and just beneath his jaw. "God, Draco," he whispered, breath hot against Draco's marble skin. "You have no idea, no idea how much I missed you. I want you, Draco, always. I love you."

The words echoed through Draco's dazed brain and his jaw finally unlocked enough to utter a single word: "No."

Blaise paused, pressing one last kiss to Draco's chin before pulling away to stare at him with a wounded look. "But, Draco…"

"No, Blaise." Draco shook his head, trying to simultaneously clear it and reconnect his brain to his body. "Not right now. This is just…today has just been too fucking _much_. I can't…not right now."

His legs finally seemed to loosen enough for him to step back, out of Blaise's hold. He saw the man open his mouth and step nearer, but Draco spoke before he could. " _If_ ," he stressed the word, "you love me as much as you say you do, you'll respect what I'm telling you right now, and give me time to think, Blaise."

With a heavy sigh, Blaise closed his eyes and nodded. "All right, Draco," he murmured, eyes still shut. "All right, I can give you time. Just…" His brown eyes slid open as he stepped close enough to stroke Draco's cheek lightly. "You believe me, right? You believe me when I say I love you?"

Unwilling to respond, Draco folded his arms and stared, until Blaise sighed once more before leaving. He paused at the door and Draco thought he was going to add something, another apology perhaps, but he said nothing, only stood there for several seconds before shutting the door softly behind him.

Knees buckling, Draco collapsed into an armchair near the fire, shivering despite the heat of the flames. The entire day had been so surreal and trancelike that he was not sure what to believe. Had any of it actually happened? Had Cyril Crabbe escaped Azkaban to wreak misplaced vengeance on his dead son's housemates? Had Draco really learnt that information only hours after breakfasting with Harry Potter? Had Harry Potter really been hugging a strange man with a _nose piercing_ in Draco's home? Was Blaise really back and had he actually professed his love to Draco? _Did_ he actually love Draco?

And most horrifying of all—and the one that he was praying he had imagined—had he actually seen Pansy's eye lying in a velvet box that had been sent to Daphne? Had that been real? Had he actually broken down, crumbled into pieces like that, in front of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley? And some stranger with facial piercings that may or may not currently be involved with Potter?

Draco had no idea what to think, what to make of everything, how to process the overload of information that his brain was struggling to make sense of. Life had stopped making sense to him years ago, this was nothing new.

There was only one thing he could think to help him sort everything out. But first, he needed Pibby.

 

Several minutes and three fingers of whisky later, he was feeling slightly more able to handle things—until a quiet knock on his door interrupted his coping session.

Stomping to the doorway and swearing to god if it was Blaise, Draco would not hesitate to slam the door in the man's face, he was somewhat stunned to open it to a worried-looking Potter instead.

"Draco," he said in surprise, as though not actually expecting Draco to have opened the door.

"Potter," he nodded, unsure of why exactly the man was there.

"Erm, can I maybe come in?" He shot a glance over his shoulder as though expecting to find somebody lurking behind him. The hallway was empty.

Silently, Draco stepped back and allowed him to enter. As Potter crossed the threshold, his eyes began darting around, as though wanting to see everything inside in an attempt to learn more about Draco by the viewing of his chambers. Glancing around himself, Draco didn't think it was particularly telling.

Potter's eyes finally landed on the large bottle of whisky sitting next to the small glass on the table. "Drinking alone?"

"One of those fucking days," Draco drawled, dropping heavily into the seat he had risen from and pouring himself another three fingers. He was not sure if it was wise to get drunk in Harry's presence, but at the moment, he knew he needed it.

"Yeah it fucking has been," Potter groaned, dropping onto the long couch next to the armchair the blond was in. "Mind if I join you?"

Gesturing to do so, Draco watched in morbid amusement as the brunet conjured a glass and poured himself a generous amount. Was he about to drown his sorrows in alcohol with Harry Potter? Were they really drinking together?

"So, Potter," Draco began, taking another large sip, "not that I'm not grateful for the company,"—he was still surprised to find that statement true and that he did, actually, welcome Potter's presence—"but to what do I owe this surprise visit?" Was Potter there just to drink all of Draco's best whisky with him? Or was there something else, some other reason behind it? Had he been worried, maybe? For the last several hours, even? Draco had no idea what time it was, but it seemed late; the entire house was quiet and he could see moonlight bathing the dark grounds through his large terrace doors.

"I came to make sure you were okay," Potter confessed, rotating his glass between two palms as he gazed at his lap. "Are you?" He glanced up at Draco before raising the glass to his lips and downing the contents. The barely suppressed shudder and grimace of disgust made Draco nearly laugh. The Auror was not much of a drinker, was he?

Still fighting the urge to chuckle, Draco refilled Potter's glass and topped his own off, as well. "Why does everyone suddenly care about my well-being?" he mused quietly, mostly to himself. For so long, Pansy had been the only one to care about him. And now suddenly, both Blaise and Harry were there, surrounding him, asking about him, caring about him, _worrying_ about him. And yet he had no response.

"People do care about you, you know," Harry answered, voice barely audible over the crackle of the flames.

"Sure," Draco scoffed, feeling maudlin and self-pitying, and not really caring that it was Potter to whom he was complaining to. "Until they find something better to turn their affections toward." It had happened with everybody in his life—with the exception of Pansy, of course, who had left Draco's life through no choice of her own. Everybody else had grown bored and vanished, or simply stopped caring enough to put in the effort—his mother, Greg, Theo, Millicent, Tracey; Blaise. Blaise had clearly never been satisfied with Draco, no matter how many professions of love he vomited in Draco's direction. That was why he had taken others on the side in the first place, wasn't it? Because Draco had been a boring lover with nothing to offer but money and a mansion to live in, correct? He had been nothing but a naïve trusting body to fuck, and a naïve trusting mind to fuck, as well.

No, Potter was wrong. Nobody cared about him.

"I was so worried," Potter spoke as if Draco's mental declaration that nobody cared for him held no truth. "God, what happened today…you scared me, Draco." He shuddered and tossed back the contents of his glass, refilling it immediately.

"You were really worried?" Draco asked, sipping at his drink. The whisky felt warm in his chest, where it was helping to keep the hurt, all the fucking _hurt_ of the last twelve hours at bay. If it could keep out the last ten years, it would be of even more help.

"Of course," Potter gulped at his drink and Draco wanted to tell him to slow down, but the Auror looked as if he needed it. "It…it hurt, watching you in so much pain. It hurt to see," he admitted, taking another swallow and grimacing.

"That's nearly exactly what Blaise said," Draco noted, observing with interest the way Potter tensed at the mention of the name.

"I never noticed him leave the room," the brunet said in a casual tone of voice. "Was everything…okay?"

"Um…" Draco cleared his throat. For a moment, he thought about telling Harry what had happened, everything Blaise had said, everything Draco had felt. Maybe just to see how Potter would react, or maybe because Draco was tired of locking every scrap of emotion he felt up tightly, burying it deep within until his feelings were hidden from even himself. He was tired of feeling closed off all the time, like there was nobody in the world left he could talk to. Could he talk to Potter? Trust him? The way the man was gazing at him, with so much kindness and concern, made Draco want to decide that yes, maybe he could trust Harry just a little bit, but the blond had the suspicion that the encouragements were also due in large part to the whisky.

"Why did you and Ginny Weasley break up?" The question was unexpected by Draco, who had not even realized that he had been thinking about Potter's past relationship with his Weasley.

Potter looked surprised as well. "Well, uh, I dunno," he struggled for words. "It just…wasn't working, you know? For either of us. I suppose the feelings had just mellowed for both of us in the wake of the war until there was nothing between us but friendship again."

"So, a clean, mutual break, then?"

"Yeah," said Potter cautiously. "I suppose it was."

Draco lapsed back into silence, sipping his drink. He really was not much of a whisky drinker, but the more he drank, the easier to swallow it became.

"Why did you and Zabini break up?"

The question made the pale hand holding Draco's whisky twitch slightly, sloshing the liquid gently around the rim of the glass. "Why are you so curious?" he asked, not entirely sure why he had asked that, especially since Potter had not been rude enough to question his reasoning for wondering about his relationship with the smallest Weasley. But that was the third time that Potter had asked about his past with Blaise. Why exactly was the man so interested?

"Well, I just…" Harry took a deep breath. "He's said a few things, and I've seen the way he's been staring at you, and I'm not sure what happened between the two of you, you know, really at all or anything, but I just want to know that you're okay, Draco. So are you? Okay, I mean?"

Draco's lips began to part, to reply automatically that he was fine, of course he was fine. But he swallowed the urge and instead—whether encouraged by the whisky or not—decided to be honest with the other man.

"No, Harry," he replied softly, staring down at his hands. "No, I'm not okay. I don't think I have been for a very long time."

Risking a glance up, he saw Potter nodding his head. "Tell me, Draco," he breathed.

As if his mouth had been waiting for the command, it opened and began to spill words, words that Draco would rather have kept to himself, but between the alcohol and the kindness in Potter's eyes, he could not stop the admissions. He told Potter everything, starting with the very first night Blaise had kissed him, how it had made the blond blush as he kissed him back, how it had all escalated from there. How it had all built so beautifully before Draco's eyes, only to then watch it tear itself to shreds with Blaise's actions.

He told Potter about the growing suspicions, how everything had come to a head one night—decidedly editing out the final straw of the explosion—how he had thrown Blaise from the manor before blasting his belongings into dust. He told Potter how lonely he felt afterwards, how the worst part of all of it had been realizing that Blaise had never truly cared about him and that even while they had been together, Draco had still been alone. He would always be alone.

Throughout it all, Potter remained mostly quiet, allowing Draco the chance to just talk, to hear his feelings spoken aloud, confessed to another person, maybe one who could help him figure out what to do, where to turn to in the murky confusion he had been left to blindly stumble through.

Finally, he fell silent and took a gulp of his drink, his hand shaking badly enough to miss his mouth and spill whisky down his chin. He wiped his chin with his sleeve, hardly caring that Potter was still watching. Hardly caring that his eyes were swimming with tears that he had gratefully not allowed to fall; tears that had been present nearly his entire monologue.

"He never deserved you." Potter's voice was low and serious, and Draco glanced up to see that he had shifted forward in his seat. "He never fucking deserved you, Draco."

The words were unexpected and Draco was not sure how to respond. Blaise didn't deserve _him_? Hadn't the entire world gotten together and decided that the blond was the least deserving of everybody?

"I'm serious," Harry continued, leaning forward even further. "If he was willing to just throw everything away like that, unwilling to see how lucky he was to have been with you or appreciate how amazing you are, then he _never_ fucking deserved you in the first place, Draco."

"But…" Draco felt dazed and was still unsure of how to respond. The man thought it a _blessing_ to have been with him? He thought Draco amazing? "Why are you being so kind?" he finally settled on. "Why are you here, Potter?"

"Harry," the other man corrected, shifting forward yet again until he was on the edge of the couch. He was gazing directly into Draco's eyes, and the blond felt unable to look away. Harry's eyes were a smoldering green, reflecting the light from the fire and burning into Draco's own with even more heat.

What had they been discussing?

"As to why I'm here…" Harry murmured, appearing to be pondering the question and giving Draco time to remember what he had asked. "I was worried about you. And…" he hesitated, clearly unsure of whether or not to admit the next part, "I didn't like the way Zabini was touching you, and looking at you, even if he really was concerned. He doesn't get to be." Potter shook his head as if to underline his point. "Not anymore. Not after what he did to you."

"So you wanted to…rescue me from Blaise?"

"Maybe a bit," said Harry, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "But after what he had been saying about you this morning, and—"

"What had he been saying?" Draco interrupted, and was fascinated to watch a bloom of color flood Harry's features. What had Blaise said to him? Knowing Blaise, it was most likely something obscene and graphic, something uttered in order to make Harry uncomfortable. But was that discomfort that was staining his cheeks? Or was something else causing the blush? Draco wasn't sure.

"Oh, er," Potter stammered. "Nothing, really, just…nothing."

"It's all right," Draco attempted a smile. "I can imagine all too clearly.

"So that was it?" he continued, changing the subject. "The only reason you're here? Just to save me from making a mistake with Blaise? As a friend?"

"I didn't want you to be alone," Potter said, his green eyes searching Draco's face. "But I especially didn't want you to be alone with _him_."

"Well, I'm alone with _you_ now," Draco pointed out, downing the rest of the dark liquid in his glass.

"Alone…" Harry's eyes fell to Draco's mouth, something that automatically made Draco's lips tingle. "Right."

The scrutiny made the blond nervous and he stood up quickly before glancing around, unsure of what to do now that he was no longer seated.

"Wait," Harry begged, catching his wrist. "Just…wait, yeah?"

"Wait?"

Harry used the blond's confusion to tug Draco toward him until he ended up seated on the couch next to the brunet. "I just want to keep talking to you," Harry murmured, fingers still wrapped around Draco's wrist. "I really like talking to you."

"Talking?" Draco echoed, aware that he was repeating words and yet unsure of how to make himself stop, just as he was unsure of how to tear his gaze from Harry's mouth.

"Or maybe not talking," Harry whispered, free hand sliding up Draco's chest to bury itself gently in the strands of hair covering the back of his neck. Draco was unsure of just who moved first—if he leaned in, or if Potter leaned forward, or maybe Potter pulled him forward, he honestly was not sure. Nor did he much care.

Because in the next second, Harry's lips were on his own, parted and warm, and he was finally finding out what the man tasted like. Whisky, for one thing. But there was something in his kisses, a dark lingering taste on Draco's tongue that for some reason reminded him of late-night lightning storms and the thrilling rush he would get when kicking off from the ground as he launched his broomstick into the sky.

Harry tasted like exhilaration.

The brunet had released his wrist to cup one hand gently around Draco's jaw, the other still buried in his platinum hair. He kissed with a slow tenderness so gentle, so sincere, that it made Draco's chest ache. He was quite sure that nobody had ever kissed him so softly, so romantically in his entire life.

And even more than it made Draco ache, it made his veins sear with a burning need for the other man. He wrapped both arms around Harry and began tugging lightly, until he was lying flat on his back on the couch and Potter was stretched atop him, one thigh tucked snugly between Draco's own.

Draco's hands were all over Harry—on his shoulders, his arms, his neck, his chest, until they were finally creeping underneath the fabric of the man's t-shirt. His skin was so warm and his mouth tasted so _good_ and Draco felt lost in a haze of sensation—Potter lying atop him, pressing into him, his heavy heat so lovely and comforting and it was nearly painful how much Draco wanted him. No, more than that. At that moment, Draco _needed_ him.

He began to kiss Harry more urgently, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the man's chin and down his throat, hands still exploring the bare skin beneath Potter's t-shirt.

"God, _Draco_ ," Harry panted into his ear, hot breath sending tiny shivers coursing through the blond.

Draco's only response was to roll his hips upward, perfectly aligned with Harry's own. Harry moaned and bent his head to kiss him, pressing his entire lower body more firmly into Draco's. They began rocking against each other, finding a rhythm, and Draco wished that there wasn't all the annoying fabric in the way. But he could not stop, not even long enough to remove clothing.

Harry was here, Harry was warm, Harry was making him feel things, such incredible things. Draco had begun to think he would never feel anything again that wasn't either blistering agony or a cold numb indifference. But Harry was making him feel good; so very, very good. His lips were on Draco's throat, sending thrills shooting through him at the contact, the warm mouth sliding down to his collarbone, panting hot breaths over his skin and fingers trying to tug as much of Draco's robes out of his way as he could.

"Harry," Draco whispered, breath hitching as he jerked his hips up sharply. Harry gasped and ground down even harder, pressing Draco into the couch with his full weight, but that was fine because Draco had never been less uncomfortable. Their movements became frenzied and jerky as they clung to each other and sped up the motion of their rocking. Draco was close, he could feel it. His hands slid along the deliciously firm body to pull Harry's hips down further and attempt to press himself even closer to the man.

"God, fuck, _Harry_!" Draco cried, clutching the man atop him tightly as his orgasm tore through him. Potter's hips continued their frantic motion until a minute later, Draco felt a shudder run through the brunet above him as his body twitched violently before stilling.

Breathing heavily, Harry pulled back to gaze down at Draco, who was looking up at the brunet with a wary expression. What would Potter do now? Run? Escape? Pretend it had never happened? Leave Draco cold and alone, lying forgotten and unwanted on the couch? Would Potter now abandon him as everybody else up until that point had done?

But Harry did none of those things—instead, he bent his head to gently cover Draco's lips with his own, the pressure so light, so soft, so achingly sweet that Draco began to panic. His heart began to thud painfully in his chest as his breath started to come faster and faster.

"I can't," he gasped, struggling beneath the other man and attempting to escape his smothering embrace. The weight that had felt so comfortable, so arousing earlier now felt as if it was suffocating him, crushing the air from his lungs.

Harry immediately jumped off of him, backing up several paces and eyeing him worriedly. "Oh, God, are you okay, Draco?" he asked, voice dripping with a concern that made Draco's panic worsen.

"I can't, I can't, I can't," Draco shook his head furiously, trying to calm his breathing, but was not finding too much success with it.

"It's okay, Draco!" Harry soothed, keeping his voice low, but Draco could hear the worry lacing it. "It's okay, just breathe! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

Glancing up at him, Draco could see that he was twisting his hands and chewing his lip, appearing torn over whether he would be allowed to comfort the blond or if his touch would simply make things worse. Draco was honestly not sure if he would rather welcome space or Potter's warm touch. He had no answers, only the words pounding through his veins with every hammering thud of his heart, telling him _toomuchtoomuchtoomuchtoomuchtoomuch_. He did not know how to process any of what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He did not even know where to begin.

A teardrop fell, so slowly as though suspended in mid-air, before it landed on the knee of his robes with a nearly audible _splash_. A single gasp tore from his mouth. As if the sound had ripped open a dam within him somewhere, tears began falling thick and fast, staining his robes.

Apparently deciding to risk his touch, Harry moved quickly back to his side, wrapping his arms around the blond and pulling him into his chest. "Shhh, Draco, shhh," the brunet murmured, stroking Draco's hair from his face and tucking it behind one ear, keeping him held against the man's body in a firm embrace. "It's okay, I'm sorry. Shhh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's okay."

Draco felt himself slowly calming, but he knew—it was too much. The whole day had just been too much. "I can't, Harry," he whispered, breath finally evening out. "I'm can't, I'm sorry, I can't, I just need…"

"What do you need?"

But Draco was not sure. What did he need? So much, yet was likely to receive so little.

"I just need to think," Draco responded finally. "I need time to myself, I feel like I haven't been able to breathe all day."

"I'm sorry if I've made you feel smothered," said Harry quietly, unwrapping his arms from the blond and withdrawing his touch.

Before he could move completely away, Draco clutched at the man's shirt. "No! That's not what I meant!" He paused. "I'm talking about everything bad that's happened today, Harry, which was just far too much. I just need to sleep." Even though he had only been awake for a short time after sleeping for hours, he felt exhausted; he sounded exhausted. He needed a solid night's sleep, then perhaps when he awoke he would be able to begin sorting through all the murky horrors and painful confusions that his life had very recently become.

"All right," Harry agreed, helping Draco from the couch. He walked the blond to the doorway of his bedroom before they both paused, looking away from one another.

"Can I…" Harry began but then hesitated. "I don't want you to feel pressured or anything, but I'd really like to kiss you, Draco. Could—could I?"

His voice was layered with doubt, a doubt that hurt Draco to hear. But his brain was spinning dizzily and he knew that at that moment, he would truly not be able to handle any more pressure, even if that was not Potter's intention.

"No," Draco answered regretfully, wishing the answer was anything resembling simple. "No, I'm sorry, Harry, but at this point, I feel like it would not be fair to either you or myself. I just…I—I can't." He turned his face away, knowing that he was being weak and hating himself for it—hating himself because he _felt_ weak.

He felt thin and stretched, worn out and weary, like a broomstick that had been forced to travel too great a distance and was now unable to fly as a result. He needed rest; he needed to be able to close his eyes, to silence the thoughts and insecurities rampaging through him, all the doubts and fears clamoring within him, screaming to be heard.

He needed to be able to breathe.

"It's okay, Draco," Harry assured, voice so kind it hurt the blond to hear it. Nobody had ever treated him with such patience or tenderness before. "Just get some sleep, yeah?" His hand stroked Draco's arm for half a second before Potter pulled his touch away. "I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight." And with that, he turned and made his way to the bedroom door, pausing to glance over his shoulder and smile sadly at Draco before the door clicked shut behind him and Draco's room was plunged into a heavy quiet, leaving him alone once more—just as he had foolishly asked for.

He shut his eyes and whispered two words into the shadowy silence.

"Goodnight, Harry."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry if it ended differently than you would have liked! In my defense, I did promise plenty of unnecessary angst. My bad. But for those of who you are into exorbitant amounts of drama and upset, this is only the beginning!


	11. Devoid of Grace

 

 _A face devoid of love or grace,_  
_A hateful, hard, successful face,_  
_A face with which a stone_  
_Would feel as thoroughly at ease_  
_As were they old acquaintances—_  
_First time together thrown._

"A Face Devoid of Love or Grace" _—_ Emily Dickinson

 

* * *

 

With a groan, Harry sat up slowly. He could feel the promise of a headache beginning to build and knew that he shouldn't have drank the previous night, but it had only been a bit. He hadn't gotten _drunk_. Had he? His feet had only been slightly clumsy when he stumbled back to his room after leaving Draco's.

Draco.

At the thought of the blond, Harry groaned again. Had they really done what he remembered so vividly doing?

As the memory crept into his mind of them pressed together so intimately on the couch, clutching each other and gasping, he felt his body remembering as well. Had he even consciously realized before the previous day how attracted to Draco he was? Had this realization all been because of Caelix? Harry had never had reason to question his sexuality in the past; there had never really been any time to think about it in his adolescence, and then he had been with Ginny.

Granted, he hadn't been with her in a while, but he hadn't felt anything for anyone in that time.

Had he?

The image of Caelix swam immediately to mind—the familiar smile, the piercings, the hair that Harry could spot anywhere, the everyday cheer that Caelix draped around himself like a robe. He could always make Harry smile, always leave him in a better mood just through his proximity alone. They were friends, definitely. But were they more than that? Did Cae really want more than that? Did Harry? He wasn't sure. Did he think of Caelix as anything other than a friend? The man was obviously attractive, Harry could see that. And Harry loved spending time with him. But he loved spending time with Ron, too.

What did that mean? What did any of it mean?

What would have happened yesterday if Ron had not walked onto the balcony when he had? What would Harry have done if Caelix had kissed him? He could picture it clearly, much more easily than he would have believed he would be able to. Caelix, his thin arms wrapped around Harry's neck, kissing him softly. What would it feel like to kiss him with the violet hoop? Harry had never kissed anyone with a lip piercing before, and he was sort of curious to find out what it would be like. Or was he more curious to find out what it would be like with Caelix?

But what about Draco?

At the thought of the blond, Harry's body flooded with heat. He could still feel Draco all over himself, pressed beneath him, moaning his name and panting for breath, legs locked securely around Harry as his hands slid over the bare skin beneath Harry's shirt, drifting lower to grip his hips and pull him even tighter against the warm body stretched out underneath him.

Harry's hand crept along his stomach, shoving his pants down enough to allow his cock to spring free of its cloth confines, already stiff just at the thought of Malfoy. As he wrapped one hand around it, Harry shut his eyes and imagined that it was Draco here with him, touching him, running his fingers along the length of Harry's shaft, moaning his name…

In no time at all, Harry was biting back a groan and shuddering.

With a grimace he glanced down at himself, the expression deepening into one of disgust as he remembered what had happened _after_ —when Draco had asked him to leave; when Draco had cried. It left Harry with a dusty, bitter taste in his mouth. Even though he had certainly not planned anything or even truly been aware of his feelings, he had pressured Malfoy. He had done exactly what he had asked Caelix not to do to him yesterday. And then, like an idiot, he had asked Draco for a goodnight kiss. What had he been thinking?

Other than the fact that he had wanted to kiss the man almost desperately, that is. There was just something about Draco Malfoy, something that intrigued Harry and drew his immediate attention. Draco was not who Harry had thought he would be. He was so different from whom he had once been, and Harry was only just beginning to get to know this new version.

Would he still get the chance? Would Draco still want anything to do with him? The man had been so upset the previous night. Had he regretted everything the moment after it was over? Did he regret it now in the cold light of a new day?

How did Harry want him to feel?

He truly hadn't planned on anything happening between them. He had gone to Draco's door to find out how the man was doing after everything that had happened the previous afternoon. Zabini had been locked away with Malfoy for hours and it had made Harry shift continuously from uneasy to angry to worried back to uneasy again. Until finally the ward he had set around Malfoy's door had silently informed him that Zabini had left. Harry had forced himself to wait for several minutes, wanting to give Draco some time to himself, but the Auror was too worried to allow for too much time to pass.

And when he had seen the bottle of whisky on the table in front of the fireplace, he had been unable to resist joining in. He had just wanted to forget the entire day and knew that, short of Obliviating himself, alcohol was the best solution for that. He hadn't expected to make a drunken pass at Draco Malfoy.

But had he really been that drunk? And had he been the one to make the pass? He still wasn't sure who had kissed who, only that it had happened.

And now here he was the next morning, waking up alone and attempting to sort out what it all meant.

Deciding to put it from his mind for the moment, he climbed from the bed and headed for the bathroom. First, he would shower, after which he would dress before attempting to track down Draco. Or should he give Draco space? Space was what the blond had asked for, wasn't it? Harry wasn't sure what to do, wasn't sure how he felt. The investigation was turning out to be far more complicated than he had initially suspected it would be. He certainly had not expected to get involved with Draco Malfoy.

But was he involved with Draco Malfoy? He had no idea.

It didn't take nearly as long as he thought it would to get showered and changed into an outfit of his that had been Ginny's favorite—a dark green button-up, sleeves rolled up to nearly his elbows, paired with ridiculously expensive jeans that Hermione and Ginny had both insisted—loudly and vehemently—that he buy, both items fitting much more snugly than he tended to normally wear. Was he overdoing it slightly? Would Draco look his way and see through him to all the self-doubts and insecurities beneath and laugh? Malfoy would have laughed, surely. But Harry wasn't so sure about Draco. He hadn't seemed angry at Harry personally the previous night, just a bit panicked at the situation in general.

With a sigh, Harry raked a hand through his hair and exited his suite. Glancing up and down the hall, he tried to decide where to go. Would Draco still be in his room? Would he have woken up already and headed to the dining room, perhaps? Or maybe the library?

Deciding to check the library first, Harry began heading down the long hallway, heart rate increasing with every step. Would Draco be there? Or should Harry continue to give him space? But he had said that he would see Draco in the morning, and the blond had agreed.

And now it was morning.

Resolve firmly squared, he straightened as he quickened his stride.

Unlike the previous time when they had been left open, the library doors were now shut, but Harry did not allow that to discourage him. He wanted to see Draco and he wanted to resolve whatever had gone wrong between them. He did not want Malfoy to remain upset, and he especially did not want the blond to be upset with him specifically.

He could be upset with Zabini, though, Harry allowed. If Draco was going to be upset with anyone, it should be Blaise Zabini.

The handle of the staircase beneath his palm was smooth and oiled, as were the stairs beneath his feet, which thankfully did not creak as Harry climbed them carefully. He did not want to give himself away too early and scare the other man off.

No, they were going to talk.

When he reached the top, he noticed Draco immediately. Blond hair was peeking out over the top of a brown leather armchair facing away from Harry.

The brunet had only taken two quiet steps forward before Draco's voice split the silence. "This really is becoming far too common of a thing, you know." He spoke without glancing in Harry's direction.

With an unpleasant twinge, Harry quickened his pace to sink down into the armchair across from Draco.

"How did you know I was there?"

"Trying to sneak up on me in my own home?" Draco tsked, closing his book and laying it aside. "Hardly possible, Potter."

The sound of his surname caused another painful twinge inside Harry, but he tried to ignore it. "It's worked before," he pointed out, absently noting that Draco had been reading a collection of Victor Hugo poems. What did that mean for the sort of mood the blond was in? Harry had never read Victor Hugo and was unsure.

For once, Harry wanted to hex himself for not having taken Hermione's lectures on novels more seriously. Draco had read everything—he was intelligent and interesting and cultured and what could Harry possibly offer him? What did he have in common with Draco? Why would Draco ever be interested in anything more with the brunet?

Unaware of the path Harry's thoughts had taken, the corners of Draco's mouth turned up into a wry smile. "Yes, but this time I was expecting you."

"Right," Harry managed, suddenly unsure of what to say. His throat felt dry and his hands felt strange and tingly, almost as if they weren't attached to the rest of his body. He had no idea what to do next, no idea of what words would be best to say. He still wasn't sure how he actually felt about anything. He always had been horrible at recognizing and getting in touch with his feelings, something Ginny had pointed out to him more than once.

But as he eyed Draco and felt a warmth spreading through his chest, he thought maybe he did recognize the feeling, after all. He recognized that he cared about Draco, at least. He recognized that he wanted to be near him, and he recognized that Draco was beautiful.

The man was dressed in deep wine-colored robes, clinging perfectly to a lean body that Harry had yet to see, but God, he wanted to. He wanted to take his time unbuttoning the tiny bronze buttons, peel the robes apart slowly to reveal the perfect pale beauty underneath. Malfoy would be perfect, Harry just knew it. He would be lovely and perfect and on display for Harry's eyes alone, Harry's touch alone.

Harry would start by running his fingers lightly along the man's chest, followed by his tongue. What would he taste like? Harry couldn't help but wonder. Would he taste sweet, like vanilla, which for some reason he reminded Harry of? Or would there be a bitter edge to the sweet, like the wine his robes were colored after?

It wasn't until he noticed there was a pink flush creeping along Draco's skin that he realized how openly he had been staring.

"How are you feeling?" Harry blurted suddenly, startling them both and blushing as he stared at his shoes in horror. Why was he so set on making a fool of himself in Draco's company?

"You mean after last night?" the blond drawled sarcastically.

"No, I mean after yesterday," Harry corrected softly. Did Draco really regret what had happened between them that much? Would it all be over before Harry got the chance to explore his newly-admitted feelings?

"Oh." Draco ducked his head. "Um, I feel…better, I suppose? I really have no idea; mostly I'm just trying not to think about it." He stared down at his lap, avoiding Harry's gaze.

"I…" Harry started, unsure of what to follow it with. "I'm sorry," he settled on finally.

"For what happened?" Draco asked coldly, glancing up to look Harry in the eye.

"No, for everything," Harry replied, then added in a hesitant voice, "And for what happened. I never—I didn't mean to pressure you or add any more stress or anything because I already know that you're dealing with a lot and I never wanted to add to that, so I'm sorry." He twisted his hands together nervously in his lap as he waited for a response, staring down at his fingers rather than at Draco. He wasn't sure what expression he would see on the other man's face and was not certain if he was ready to find out.

They sat in silence for several long minutes before Draco finally spoke. "So you're only sorry because of my response last night? Not because of what actually happened?"

"Yes," Harry nodded, eyes flicking up to the man across from him for a moment before looking away. "Only…only because of how freaked you seemed after. I really am sorry, Draco."

"How freaked I seemed," Draco murmured. "An understatement. At least I didn't attempt to _Crucio_ you this time."

"That's not funny," said Harry sharply, gaze snapping onto Draco's.

"It wasn't meant to be, Potter," Draco sighed, apparently oblivious to the way Harry's insides twisted at the detached tone of voice the man had spoken his surname in.

"Draco…"

"I appreciate that you came to find me this morning to check how I was doing," Draco spoke in a polite voice, one that made Harry's stomach clench. "But I would really rather be alone right now, if that's all right with you." His hand reached for the book lying on the table next to him, a clear dismissal.

But Harry couldn't leave yet. He hadn't said what he had come to say. He hadn't explained anything correctly. And now Draco was going to just go back to calling him Potter and dismissing him so easily? Dismissing what had happened between them so easily? Had it really meant nothing to the man? Had Harry meant nothing? The entire time they had been kissing, touching, Draco hadn't felt _anything_ toward him?

"No, Draco, I'm not going anywhere, I don't—" Harry began, but never got the chance to complete the refusal.

"Just fucking leave already, Potter!" snapped Malfoy angrily—it was quite _clearly_ Malfoy speaking; Draco had once again vanished—grip tightening around the book until his knuckles were white. "Nobody asked you to look for me, did they? Always playing the _fucking_ hero, aren't you? Even when nobody wants it! I never asked for your help, did I? Nobody invited you up here! Nobody invited you to my room last night! Nobody invited you back into my life!"

His grey eyes were flashing furiously and Harry could see all the past resentment that the blond had once had for him swim to the surface of his glare. It made Harry's throat feel tight and his chest ache. Draco really hated him, didn't he? Had he hated him the entire time? Or had it only been when Harry had practically jumped the man?

And were his feelings really that surprising? Just the previous night, Harry's touch had sent Malfoy into a panic, sobbing and pleading with Harry to leave, to get out, give him space. Harry's touch could only make things worse. It had only ever made things worse.

After all, how many times had the Dursley's told him that just his mere existence had made their lives so much worse? How many times had he put the lives of the people he loved in danger just through his proximity alone? And how many of them were now dead because of him? He seemed to be a walking cancer, infecting everybody's lives around him negatively until they resented his very existence.

Harry felt hollow. He felt empty. He felt like the world's biggest idiot. Draco hated him and wanted nothing to do with him. What else should he have expected?

"No, nobody did," he answered numbly, lips feeling strangely rubbery and larger than normal. "I'm sorry, Draco. I'll just…you're right, I'll go. Sorry." He rose from the armchair and walked stiffly to the staircase, refusing to look back at the blond as Harry descended in a cold sort of daze. When he had first entered the library, he hadn't been sure what to expect, but he would be lying if he said that a large part of himself had not been hoping that Draco would have maybe kissed him. Or that he would have at least been pleased just to _see_ him.

But Malfoy didn't want to see Harry at all anymore. Maybe Harry reminded him too much of the painful past, or maybe Malfoy wasn't ready for anything serious. Maybe it was all just happening too quickly, or maybe Draco was simply lashing out from stress. Or worst of all—maybe he had realized that he still had feelings for Zabini and wanted to be with him instead of Harry. Harry had no idea and was not even sure if an answer would have made him feel better.

He hurried from the library, feeling suffocated by the smothering effect of being surrounded by walls and walls of books. It gave him the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped. How did anyone breathe in that room?

Once out in the hallway, he began the rather long trip back to the guest room he had come from. Maybe he could fall back asleep and when he woke up, things would be different. Maybe Malfoy would be able to stand the sight of him, and maybe Harry would have caught the killer already.

His delusions were interrupted by a low drawl from an open doorway to his right. "Potter."

"Zabini," Harry bit out, jaw clenched tightly as he slowed. What did the man possibly want? What else did he have to say to Harry? Malfoy had already informed him much too clearly that the man wanted nothing to do with him. Was Zabini there to rub his face in that fact?

"And where are we coming from this morning then, hmm?"

"None of your fucking business," Harry ground out. He was tired of playing games with the man, tired of giving in to the type of sick mind games that all of the Slytherins seemed to delight so much in playing.

He was tired of Slytherins taking pleasure in fucking with him.

"My, my," Zabini smirked, stepping closer. "We are a bit testy in the mornings, aren't we?"

Harry's knuckles tingled and he was struck with the swift urge to smash his fist into the other man's nose. Taking deep breaths and attempting to calm himself, he reached for his most detached tone of voice. "What do you want?"

Zabini's grin widened. "Quite a lot, I'll admit." He tilted his head and peered closely at Harry for nearly a full minute without speaking. Harry simply raised one eyebrow and waited. "How was Draco?" Zabini finally asked, shifting his weight closer. The other man's face was so close and Harry couldn't help but notice that Zabini was extremely attractive. He was bloody gorgeous, for Merlin's sake, loath as Harry was to admit that to himself; with deep, chocolate-colored eyes; smooth, flawless brown skin; and full, dark lips. What chance did he ever have with Draco when someone who looked like Blaise Zabini wanted the man?

Harry's knuckles itched and he fought the urge to scratch them—as well as the urge to sink them into the flesh of the infuriating man so near him. "Why don't you go ask him yourself?" Harry suggested sarcastically. "Or are you afraid that he doesn't want to see you?"

The grin stretching Zabini's face twisted into an ugly grimace. "Trust me, Potter, after yesterday, he'll see me." Before Harry had time to wonder what those words meant, Zabini continued speaking. "Why so…protective of Draco, hmm? I mean, considering the way the two of you used to hate one another. And what do you think the _Daily_ _Prophet_ would make of your newfound _friendship_ with Draco Malfoy?" His voice was low and dangerous, a tone that made Harry's hand automatically twitch toward his wand.

Deciding to drop any pretense, Harry straightened and took a step nearer to Zabini, so close that their shoes were nearly touching. "Is that a threat?" He spoke in a quiet voice, one he had used dozens of times in his job in the past to intimidate criminals, both in the field and in interrogations.

"Simply a reminder of the consequences," Zabini's eyes narrowed.

"Sure. Well, thanks for the concern," said Harry sardonically, attempting to adopt the same condescending drawl that every syllable of Zabini's words seemed to drip with. "But why don't you worry about your own consequences, yeah? And leave mine and Draco's up to us." And before he could do anything regrettably stupid, like slam his fist into Zabini's face, he turned and strode away. There was so only so much he could stand, and he had already reached his limit that day with Slytherins.

Maybe Harry's presence at the Manor was getting to be just too much—for Draco, for Zabini, for himself. What was he really doing there anyway? He hadn't protected anybody, hadn't saved anyone. All he had done was make a fool of himself and get rejected for it. And that was hardly something he wanted to stick around to continue doing.

Maybe he wasn't the right Auror for the case anymore. Maybe someone like Neville could do a better job. Maybe Harry should speak to Wescott about getting reassigned to another part of the investigation. Maybe that would be better for all of them.

Mind made up, he hurried down the stairs to the sitting room. Malfoy didn't want to see him anymore? Fine. He would remove himself from the man's life. A quick Patronus was sent to Ron explaining that he had gone to speak to Caelix before a handful of powder was tossed into the fireplace and Harry was calling out for the Ministry. He needed to speak to both Caelix and Wescott, and possibly Neville, and then he could do as Malfoy requested and disappear from the man's life once again.

His last thought as he spun away was that Draco really had looked beautiful that morning.

 

* * *

 

"No, nobody did," Potter said quietly, staring down at his lap. "I'm sorry, Draco. I'll just—you're right, I'll go. Sorry."

And before Draco could even blink, the man had crossed the room and was descending the staircase. An immediate flash of regret burned painfully in his chest. Why had he snapped at Potter like that? Why had he yelled at the man?

Christ, Harry had looked so stricken…

Draco flinched at the memory and sighed heavily. What else was he supposed to have done? What else had Potter been expecting? Surely he had not been expecting Draco to express interest? Why would he, when he knew how sober Potter now was? And why on earth would the man ever want Draco without the encouraging whisper of whisky thrumming through his veins? And even if somehow he miraculously did, it wouldn't last. It never had. Draco had only ever been a temporary fixture in people's lives.

And he knew without a doubt—he could fall hard for Harry; hard enough to never recover if Harry ever looked at him one day with dissatisfaction or resentment in his eyes. How could Harry Potter ever love him? It was incredible enough that the man had consented to stay in the Manor and befriend Draco; adding love on top of that was just too much to hope for.

Was it something Draco hoped for?

He still wasn't certain of his feelings in regards to very much. The dull light of dawn had not brought with it any sort of clarification or eye-opening epiphany. It had only brought yet another morning; only another day of confused pain to stumble his way through. It was still so early in the day, and already he had fucked everything up. He couldn't wait to see how else he would manage to ruin his life as the morning progressed.

Curling his feet up underneath him, he rested his chin on his knees and tried not to think about the previous night. He tried desperately not to think about the way Harry had felt pressing into him—soft yet firm; warm; safe—the way he had tasted and smelled, the sounds he had made…Draco thumped his head miserably against the back of the armchair. Those were exactly the sorts of thoughts best left unexplored. He couldn't be with Harry, and he wasn't sure how he felt about Blaise.

When Blaise had kissed him it had been…unexpected. But it had been nice. It had been _Blaise_. It hadn't even been a proper kiss, but Draco had felt _something_ of whatever it was that they had had between them stir weakly inside him. It had been there, on Blaise's lips, hidden in his touch, buried in his words. Was he really in love with Draco? How could Draco ever be sure? How could he ever trust him again?

Blaise had been his first—his first relationship, his first lover, his first time feeling truly cared about. Only he hadn't been.

But maybe it would be different this time. Perhaps Blaise had changed. Or maybe Draco could learn how to alter the aspects of his personality that had originally torn them apart. But had it been entirely Draco's fault?

Part of him knew it had been, and that, above all else, was the reason he could not start anything with Harry Potter. Draco had driven everybody he had ever cared about away and, despite what the papers said, Potter was only mortal. Draco would surely drive Harry away as well, and then where would that leave him?

Alone. Forever alone.

He had been forced to accept long ago that that was what fate had in store for him. Maybe if Blaise explained to him exactly what Draco had done wrong, maybe then he could start working on it, begin to attempt to better himself. And maybe then the people in his life would actually stick around. Hopefully, it was not too late to fix himself enough for somebody to love him.

With a pang, he remembered the hurt look in Harry's eyes when Draco had lashed out at him, and knew that he did not actually deserve such love. Maybe this was a case of the universe granting only what was owed. He did not deserve Harry Potter, and he would not allow himself to have Harry now only to one day watch the man tear himself from Draco's embrace with a snarl of disgust. After everything Draco had gone through—all the misery and the pain; the tears shed in secret, crying into the heavy dark protection of his drawn curtains in the Slytherin dorms; the numerous nights in his teenage years spent staring at himself hollow-eyed in a mirror, gazing down at his pale wrists and wondering if a Severing Charm would be more preferable to the absolute hell his life had somehow twisted into, on top of all the fresh agony now polluting Draco's waking hours in billowing clouds of terror and sleepless nights—he knew that if Harry Potter ever broke him, it would be something he would never heal from.

What if Harry looked down at his arm, saw the Dark Mark staining it, and remembered who Draco had been? What if he pulled away in repulsion?

He could never be allowed to see it.

He could never be Draco's.

With that miserable thought firmly established in Draco's mind, he sank more fully into the armchair and shut his eyes.

Time passed and he was unsure how long he remained curled up in that position, only noticing how numb parts of him were starting to grow when Blaise's obnoxious seductive drawl startled him.

"Hiding amongst your precious books, are we, darling?"

Draco said nothing, hoping that the man would grow bored and leave. He had done it so well in the past, after all.

That hope was shattered, however, as Blaise dropped into the same armchair that Harry had occupied so recently.

"No ignoring me now, Draco," Blaise tsked, dragging the armchair closer and resting one palm over Draco's ankle. "We need to talk."

"Who the fuck says it's you I want to talk to?" Draco snapped, anger flaring within him with alarming intensity. Hadn't Blaise promised just the previous night that he would give Draco space? Draco had asked for time to think through everything and the man had promised to grant that, hadn't he?

Or had that been just another fucking lie?

"Well, aren't you in a mood this morning," Blaise's eyes flashed as he removed his hand and sat back in the chair. "Both you and the Chosen Auror." That got Draco's attention. His gaze flicked back to meet Blaise's, to find the man appraising him coolly. "Your foul moods wouldn't have anything to do with one another, I wonder, would they, love?"

His suspicious tone only served to make Draco more furious. Who did Blaise Zabini think he was? How dare he think that he have any sort of right to corner Draco and hurl accusations at him, after everything he had done?

"You don't get to just fucking show up out of nowhere and accuse me of anything, you bastard," Draco spat, standing so swiftly he nearly knocked over the armchair he had been seated in. Striding quickly, he made it almost halfway down the staircase before Blaise caught him. His arm was grasped tightly from behind and Draco was forced to turn to face the other man on the narrow stairs. They stood together on the same step, Draco squeezed tightly between the body of his ex-lover and the wood of the banister.

"Draco, I'm sorry," Blaise apologized, hand still locked around Draco's upper arm. "I didn't mean to make it sound like you owe me anything because lord knows you don't. But…" he hesitated, an uncharacteristic gesture for the usually confident man. "But I love you and I'm terrified, so absolutely terrified that I've lost you."

With his free hand, he reached up to trace light patterns across Draco's cheekbones, and Draco could feel warm breath across the skin of his jaw. He could feel Blaise's body practically molded against him, standing close enough to make him feel dizzy. Draco could recall perfectly what that body looked like, without all of the clingy fabric in the way covering his lean brown limbs. Blaise's hand was so warm on his skin and Draco wanted nothing more than to be able to take comfort in the man's touch.

But how could he?

Clearing his throat, he willed his voice to sound more or less normal. "If you have lost me, Blaise," he said quietly, "it was entirely of your own doing."

Failing to mention all of Draco's own character flaws that had contributed to Blaise's many infidelities, the blond escaped Blaise's touch and all but ran from the library. He felt lightheaded and disoriented, sick from the confusion and mistrust and hurt and pain all swirling together until he was reeling from the force of it.

He could not be with Harry and he was not sure if he could ever again trust Blaise. He had never felt more alone or confused in his entire life, and would have given anything, _anything_ , to have had Pansy there to help him through it. She would know exactly how to solve it, exactly which decision to make. Most likely she would say something along the lines of telling Draco to ditch Blaise, who had already had his chance, and take Harry out for a test ride. But he had already done that, hadn't he? And regardless, hadn't she hated Harry?

Yes, considering she had tended to look negatively on almost everyone. But would she have objected to Draco being with him? Most likely not, if she had seen what the man looked like now. Pansy was one of those that could forgive a pretty face of anything, and Potter definitely had a pretty enough face.

Maybe Draco was overthinking everything and making everything much more complicated than it needed to be. But how could he be _sure_? How could he be certain if he had actually yet thought something through to its extent, or if he really was overthinking it? But maybe he hadn't yet thought the situation through _enough_. He didn't think he would ever be certain—of anything ever again, most likely.

Maybe he should find Harry and apologize. Maybe he should find Blaise and apologize. Maybe he should fetch that bottle of whisky from the previous night and attempt to drown himself in it.

 _And maybe not_ , he decided as his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch at the thought.

But he needed _something_ to focus on. There were far too many confusing thoughts and painful memories clamoring within him, screaming to be heard, and he knew that he would drive himself absolutely mental before too long if left on his own.

Casting his mind about for something menial to distract himself from his painful and depressing thoughts, his brain settled on an image of Ronald Weasley and he managed a half-grin at the thought. Weasley was certainly droll enough to distract him.

Marching to the charcoal-colored door guarding the redhead's chambers, Draco knocked impatiently. "Weasley!" he called loudly, pounding on the wood.

The door flew open to reveal a barefoot Weasley, wearing a pale blue jumper and Muggle jeans. "Is everything all right, Malfoy?" he asked sharply, glancing around, and Draco nearly wanted to laugh—a noticeably odd reaction, considering the company.

"No, it's not," he answered, watching in amusement as the grip on Weasley's wand tightened. "You're about to get your arse kicked in chess."

The fist clenched around the wand relaxed automatically as Weasley grinned. "Is that what's about to happen?"

Draco nodded and Weasley gestured for him to come inside. As he entered, he noticed with embarrassment the bushy-haired head of Granger floating in the fireplace. Why had the man invited him in if he was in the middle of a Floo call with his fiancée?

"I was just saying bye to Hermione," Weasley answered as if Draco had been speaking his thoughts aloud, something he fervently hoped he had not been doing.

"Hello, Draco," Granger greeted politely from the fireplace, startling him into place. Was she speaking to him cordially? As if their past did not exist? Had the Gryffindors always been this easily forgiving, or had the war changed them? Draco supposed he would never know.

"Hello, Granger," he replied cautiously.

She smiled at him and shook her head. "I know that we have yet to see each other in person since school ended,"—a rather nice way of phrasing the war and the following repercussions—"but you _can_ call me Hermione, you know. It is my name, after all."

"Hermione," Draco echoed, unsure of what it meant that he was now on a first name basis with two of the Gryffindor Golden Trio.

"So did you get that folder from my office for me?" Weasley asked, his voice cutting through the shroud of awkward air that had been cementing around them with the utterance of Draco's single repeated word.

"Took me a while to find it," Granger—Hermione—answered, handing the redhead a thick folder through the flames.

"Was Harry not in there when you went in?" Weasley's question captured Draco's immediate attention. Potter was at the Ministry? He was no longer inside the Manor? He had just _left_?

"No, he wasn't," Granger answered, tossing a mass of fluffy curls behind one shoulder. "Is he here right now?"

 _Yes, is he there right now_? Draco demanded silently.

"Yeah," Weasley answered. "He went in to speak to Wescott about something, and he said he wanted to stop and see Cae." At the name, a smirk crossed Weasley's face. "They have a lot to talk about, I would imagine."

 _What the fuck is that supposed to mean?_ Draco wanted to shout, but he somehow was able to remain quiet.

"What do you mean?" Granger—Draco could _kiss_ her for her inquisitiveness—asked, in a much more mild tone of voice than Draco would have been able to manage.

"Let's just say that Cae might finally be getting through Harry's obliviousness to the smitten idiot underneath," Weasley grinned widely.

But what did that mean? Were Harry and this Caelix not actually involved yet? Had Draco misread that situation and possibly driven Harry into the other man's arms with his rejection of the brunet?

"Well, it's about time," said Granger, and Draco took back every nice thought he had about kissing her. "I mean, _honestly_."

"Fucking hell, though," Weasley agreed. "You're not the one that has to see them dance around each other every single day."

"Is Potter even gay?" Draco interrupted, startled by his own question.

The two Gryffindors both turned to look at him in surprise, almost as if they had forgotten he was there. It seemed to be a pattern in his life.

"No," Weasley shrugged. "I mean, he dated my sister and they lived together for a bit and everything. But I'm pretty sure he likes blokes, too, and I'm damn certain he's interested in Cae."

The casual tone surprised Draco. Was Weasley really not that bothered by Potter's sexuality, then? Did he _want_ Harry and Caelix to be together?

"That doesn't bother you?" Draco asked before he could tell himself not to.

"Course not," Weasley shrugged again. "Why would it? My brother Charlie's gay. Bit of a slag, too, mind you."

Immediately, Draco's mind flashed with a million questions he wanted to ask the redhead, such as, what had his parents done when they had found out? How did Charlie feel about it all? Were his parents still holding him to traditional pureblood family standards?

But the last question was ridiculous. If the Weasley's were anything, it was anything other than traditional purebloods. Of course they would not have reacted to Charlie's sexuality in the same old-fashioned pureblood way that his father would have if he had ever known. But Draco had never met another pureblood who was out and comfortable with it. Blaise hardly counted, since his mother had always been much more concerned with money rather than blood-status.

Was everyone in Weasley's family as accepting of and comfortable around Charlie as the redhead before him appeared to be? Surely Charlie's parents would not have demanded that he continue on the family line before seeing to any of his depraved, perverse urges, as would have been expected of Draco if the issue of his sexuality had ever been brought to light.

"Not what you were expecting?" Weasley's voice once again captured his attention and brought him out of his daze. "Pureblood wizards being so comfortable with their gay family members?" His voice was both teasing and understanding, and so kind that Draco almost didn't recognize it.

How was he supposed to be expected to continue telling himself that everybody hated him when Weasley, who had more reason to hate him than most, was talking to him in such a kind voice and attempting to _understand_ Draco? Almost as if they were friends. Was that something that was even possible? Friendship with Gryffindors?

He and Harry had been friends, for a short time, anyway, before Draco did what he does best and destroyed it. And it was true that he did not mind Weasley's company nearly as much as he once would have. They had gotten along extremely well so far, considering their history.

But most likely, all three Gryffindors were nauseatingly polite to everybody they crossed paths with. It was nothing special, nothing personal. Draco was only on the same temporary path as the other three and would part ways with them soon enough. It would do him well to remember who he was, after all, and not get swept away in possible friendships with Gryffindors that would never actually amount to anything. They were all heroes and had morals and standards that Draco never would. He would never be described as ethical, or heroic, and he certainly would never be described as brave. The idea of anyone applying those terms to him was laughable.

"Malfoy?" Weasley's tone was nudging and Draco realized that he had never answered his question.

"Erm, no," he said uncomfortably, wanting to duck his head but refusing to do so in the current company. "No, that isn't exactly the normal response to that sort of thing amongst pureblood families."

"It's not as uncommon as you think," Weasley shrugged. "Luna's bi and her father's fine with it." The man traded a look with Granger before cracking a smile. "Maybe that's another bad example, though," he relented, "considering her family's open-mindedness to pretty much everything."

"Luna Lovegood is bisexual?" Draco sounded as surprised as he felt.

"Yeah, she came out pretty soon after the war. She and Neville have been together for a couple of years now."

Draco was shocked. He had never really heard much about what had happened with the girl he used to sneak food down to when she had been imprisoned in his cellar. She was with Longbottom now? She was out and her father was fine with it?

Well, considering who her father was and that the entire family had a biased disposition in favor of anything out of the ordinary, that hardly surprised Draco. But still, it was nice to hear about other queer purebloods finding acceptance from their own family, something that Draco had given up long ago ever having.

He had given up the hopes of ever having any of the things he really wanted.

Perhaps because he had led such a privileged childhood—much more privileged than most, he could admit that—the universe had had to adjust things, balance scales out, and the sacrifice for that balance was Draco's family life and adult happiness. Maybe he had already received all he was going to, achieved as much happiness as he was ever capable of attaining.

Clearly, his life had begun its decline.

And this was all merely payback for having been such an exceedingly spoiled child, and a massive brat on top of it. He could not make the mistake of falling for any of it, no matter how appealing or tempting it may appear.

"I had no idea," Draco murmured, mostly to himself.

For some reason, he hoped Lovegood and Longbottom worked out. Someone deserved to be happy, and Draco had seen both Lovegood and Longbottom suffer enough to wish genuine happiness on them both, something his teenage self would have mocked him mercilessly for. His father would have seen it as a weakness. His mother would have seen it as a loving trait. Potter and the rest of the Gryffindors most likely saw it as common sense. But he was not sure which of them he agreed with. Draco was not sure how he felt in regards to his own feelings about anything, as he had demonstrated so many times only just that morning.

"I should get back to work," Granger's voice seemed to sound out of nowhere, startling Draco. He had all but forgotten about her, lost in his own woolgathering.

"Course you should," Weasley grinned. "Wouldn't want to allow yourself to take too much of the fifteen minutes you set aside for a break each day, would you?"

"Hardly," Granger scoffed, lips twitching. "Sometimes I feel lazy and allow myself almost twenty."

Chuckling, Weasley smiled at her in an adoring manner, one that made Draco uncomfortable to watch. Should he turn around? Leave the room for a moment? Cover his eyes and hum loudly? But the next second they had both said a last goodbye and Granger's head had vanished from the flames.

"Do the two of you Floo each other every day when you're apart?" Draco asked incredulously, earning another chuckle from Weasley.

"Not every single day, but almost," he answered. "We've mostly seen each other every day since we were eleven, you know? And Hermione wants to make sure we always set aside enough time in the day for each other."

The words caused an interesting reaction in Draco—he wanted to mock the redhead relentlessly for confessing such a thing, as well as ask him a million questions on how exactly he had been able to hold onto his relationship for so long and even progress it to near-married status. Was it something Draco could learn to do as well? Not with Granger, of course, but…someone, maybe.

Harry flashed instantly to mind, but the thought was quickly banished. Even if that had been an option for the blond that morning, it certainly wasn't anymore. Draco had seen to that.

Just as difficult to banish was the hot churn of guilt that curled through his stomach at the memory of Harry's expression when Draco had yelled those things…those horrible things that weren't even _true_. He needed to apologize to Harry. He needed to know if their friendship was still salvageable.

But he was terrified. What if he couldn't help himself and he fell in love with Potter? What would he do when the man left his home and his life forever once the case was solved? Surely the best course of action was to stay far away from Harry Potter.

He could do that. He could stay away from the man, for both their sakes.

"So, you foolishly want to verse me in chess, then?" Weasley interrupted his thoughts suddenly with a smirk, sparing Draco from attempting to come up with a response to whatever it was that the other man had last said.

"Oh, fuck off, Weasley, you're not _that_ good," Draco retorted with a sneer, but it wasn't heartfelt and judging by Weasley's grin, the man was well aware. Draco now found it impossible to dredge up the old feelings of animosity that had once burned within him in regards to all three of the Gryffindors he had already conversed with just that morning. His life had changed so drastically in the past few weeks it nearly made his head spin. He was now trading good-natured insults with a ginger-haired _Weasley_ , of all people, challenging them to chess games in the guest rooms of Draco's own home and greeting their bushy-haired Muggle-born fiancées by their first names in his own fireplace. Fate seemed to have a rather dry sense of humor when it came to cosmological jokes.

"Just get the fucking board set up, Weasel," Draco drawled, determined to beat the man in the opening game.

"You'll regret those words, Ferret." Weasley waved his wand and a chessboard flew toward them from somewhere unseen. It settled onto the table in front of the fireplace and Draco dropped into an armchair before it.

"I get white," Draco said smugly.

"Not gonna make a difference, mate."

The blond glared as he made his first move.

Several long minutes later, his determination at both defeating Weasley and placing Potter from his thoughts seemed to be succeeding. He was closing in on Weasley's king, just a few more moves and he would have him cornered.

A loud crack split the concentrated silence, startling Draco's eyes from the board just as his knight captured one of Weasley's bishops. Pibby stood nearby, eyes bright and excited. At the sight, Draco frowned and straightened in his seat.

"Oh, Master Draco, sir!" the elf squeaked, clapping his hands together.

One eyebrow raised, Draco turned to exchange a glance with Weasley, who was staring at the elf in amusement.

"Yes, Pibby?" Draco prodded. What had happened to make the elf so delighted?

"He is here, sirs, he is back again to see Master Draco! Pibby is wondering for so long where he is vanishing to, but now, sirs, he is back!" The elf beamed.

A heavy stone dropped into Draco's stomach. Who was there? It couldn't be his father, his father was in Azkaban. It couldn't be Cyril Crabbe, there to exact revenge on him. The wards would keep him out, and even if he had somehow made it inside, he would hardly go around announcing his arrival to the house-elf. The man clearly had more sense than that.

Who else was left alive that Draco knew?

But the next second Pibby was speaking again and everything suddenly made sense.

"Master Gregory has returned!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harry and Draco, so confused and insecure! If anyone was hoping this story would be resolved quickly with lots of smiles and happy words, I apologize. But for anyone hoping for even more drama and hurt feelings, just wait, because Caelix will be in the next chapter. With Harry. Alone in a room together. See where this might be going? Also, Goyle has arrived! The slumber party is almost complete! Just missing one more person and then the fun can really start!
> 
> I'm going to try to be better about updating. The wait between chapters has been described to me as torturous, and I would like to apologize for any pain inflicted. I'm not a sadist and I take no delight in tormenting anyone, so in the future, I will try to be quicker. Cross my heart and whatnot.
> 
> Lemme know your thoughts, opinions, suspicions, all of that :) I'm so curious!


	12. In Black Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I would like to begin this chapter with a genuine apology for the wait. I know I promised a lot of you that this would be up a long time ago and I know that it really has been a long time and so I really am sorry. I recently lost someone extremely close to me and the grief has made it impossible for me to focus on any sort of fictive writing. Fortunately, this chapter was pretty much mostly already finished, sorry it wasn't up sooner. Also, sorry for bumming any of you out before the chapter has even started. My bad.
> 
> Coupla things real quick now…
> 
> This chapter comes with a very real and very serious Caelix Warning. Also, a Blaise Warning. Also, I should probably warn you about all of the hurt feelings that this chapter is overflowing with. Whoops. Also, I'm adding an extra Caelix Warning. If you're not a fan of him, particularly of any Harry/Caelix interactions, I would like to apologize again and remind you that we're still friends and I still love you and it will all be okay I promise cross my heart please don't be mad at me!
> 
> Aaanyway, I hope that all of you lovely anonymous faces out there enjoy the chapter, and I hope that no one is too upset about the wait or about the intense soap opera dramatic realness of it all! Sorry again. Love you again. Please leave me reviews :)

_In grayish doubt and black despair,_  
_I drafted hymns to the earth and the air,_  
_pretending to joy, although I lacked it._  
_The age had made lament redundant._

 _So here's the question - who can answer it -_  
_Was he a brave man or a hypocrite?_

"In Black Despair"—Czeslaw Milosz

 

* * *

 

The lights in the lift flickered overhead as several memos circled the air above Harry lazily, waiting much more calmly to reach their destination than Harry felt able to. Drumming a sporadic rhythm against the outside of his thigh with one hand, he shifted weight between feet as the lift slid smoothly onto another floor. They lurched to a halt and the doors slid open as the familiar voice announced their level and Harry hurried out of the confined space, squeezing between two large witches with a mumbled, "Excuse me." Once free of the claustrophobic lift, he took his time making his way down the corridor and through the entrance leading to Headquarters. As the door thudded shut behind him, he paused as he considered who to speak to first.

Deciding on Wescott first, he continued the casual pace as he made his way past closed doors and cubicles until finally, he arrived at Wescott's office. His secretary waved Harry inside, and Harry opened the door to find Wescott sitting at his desk, hunched over a quill and parchment.

The moment the door swung open, the man glanced up. "Potter," he greeted, turning his attention back to the parchment spread before him.

Sinking into the chair on the other side of the desk, Harry waited for him to finish with whatever it was he was focused on.

Less than two minutes later, the parchment was placed into a yellow folder and set aside. Wescott's serious gaze was directed onto Harry, who realized abruptly that he was not in his Auror robes. Fighting the urge to both flush and rake a hand through his hair, Harry instead settled for fidgeting uneasily in his seat.

"Is there a new development in the case?" Wescott asked, leaning back in his chair but never removing his stare from Harry's own.

"No, not exactly," Harry hesitated. "I was just…wondering if it would be possible to maybe get reassigned to another part of the investigation?"

Wescott fixed him with a sharp gaze. "Did something happen?"

"Er, no," Harry lied uncomfortably. "But I…well…" He took a deep breath and tried again. "There's just…a lot of history between us all. I thought the past had been put behind us, but now I'm not so sure." He didn't say who he was speaking about, but he knew that Wescott would understand. Who else would he be speaking about but Draco Malfoy?

Between all of the articles that had been written over the years on the both of them, the entire wizarding world was well aware of the history between Harry and Malfoy. The hatred between them was well known; Harry had been an idiot if he had thought it was something they could just get past. They would always be Malfoy and Potter, always at odds with each other. They were oil and water, broomsticks and lightening, Slytherin and Gryffindor. They were everything that did not go together. They would always be opposites, always both be what could not be forced into harmony. Despite how easy Harry had found conversing with Malfoy to be over the past few days, it had obviously been something that could not last.

Draco was only as temporary as everyone else in Harry's life had ever been.

"Are you saying," Wescott's voice startled Harry from his thoughts, "that the two of you, even for the sake of his own life, are not able to put a schoolyard rivalry from years ago aside? Not even in the recent face of everything that has been happening over the past several months?"

Harry wanted to argue that that was not the case, but he could never tell Wescott the real reasons behind wanting to be removed from the Manor.

"Look, Potter," Wescott placed his forearms on his desk and leaned toward Harry. "I know that you and Weasley volunteered to stay with them, but even if you hadn't, it would have been the two of you, regardless." His stare, if anything, became even more stern. "I trust the two of you in the field and I trust your ability to handle yourselves."

Opening his mouth to speak, Harry couldn't decide if he wanted to argue the statement or express gratitude for the man's faith in him. Before he could say anything, however, Wescott was speaking. "So, unless something has actually happened, something that would definitely get you removed from the case, I'm afraid that you're stuck where you are."

For a moment, just the briefest second, Harry was tempted to confess everything to the man—maybe to get it off his chest, maybe to ensure himself removed from the case, maybe to prove Wescott a tiny bit wrong about his involvement with Draco, or maybe just in attempts to shock the other man, Harry didn't know. Wisely, however, he decided to keep it all to himself. With a shake of his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Wescott nodded sharply. "How is Greengrass doing?"

"Erm…" Harry shrugged, feeling awkward. "I'm not sure yet. I haven't seen her this morning." Harry had been thinking about himself that morning, of course. After all, he was Harry Potter, the self-absorbed-Boy-Who-Lived. No wonder Draco didn't want to get involved with him—how would the blond fit into the brunet's life with all the room Harry's narcissism took up?

With a start, he realized he was doing it _again_ and wrenched himself back into the conversation as Wescott's deep voice asked him a question. "What do you make of how the packages were delivered?"

"Er…" Harry hesitated again. "Well, Caelix said that there was no trace of magic in the area surrounding the balcony they had been found on, so it couldn't have been magically delivered by means of a spell, leaving really only delivery by either owl or person. Draco said that it would be impossible to enter the manor's wards without permission, so it must have been an owl."

"And you trust Malfoy's word?"

Harry hesitated. Did he still trust Draco's word? Yesterday, the answer would have been an automatic yes. But now…

A throat cleared, reminding Harry that Wescott was still waiting for an answer.

"Yes, I do," said Harry quietly. "Caelix said he tested them as well, said they seemed solid enough."

Upon hearing that Caelix had both tested and approved of the wards, Wescott relaxed fractionally and nodded. "Interesting," the man mused. "But that opens up questions about whether the sender knew her location, or if the owl was the one able to find her. Do you know if that's something Malfoy's wards would prevent?"

"No." How would the sender have known where Daphne was? And how would they have found Malfoy Manor? As far as Harry knew, it was Unplottable.

"Well, find out when you return," said Wescott with another sharp nod, one returned by Harry.

Appearing satisfied, Wescott returned his attention to a large stack of parchments next to his left elbow. Fighting back a sigh, Harry rose from his seat and had one hand on the knob before Wescott spoke.

"And Potter?" Harry turned, surprised by the man's tone of voice, which was much less flinty than normal. He was fixing Harry with his regular serious stare, but there was something almost…gentle about it. "Stopping these murders and Draco Malfoy's life are worth more than some petty childhood grudge, aren't they?"

Embarrassment and shame swept through Harry at the words. Wescott was right, of course. Harry should not be focused on his personal interest in Draco Malfoy. He needed to focus on the case, he needed to find answers and stop whoever was behind this. Solving the case was far more important than his own selfish personal life. There was no time to involve himself in trivial dramas with Draco fucking Malfoy, for his own sake as well as Malfoy's.

Ignoring the voice that whispered that anything involving Draco was hardly trivial, Harry nodded once more, much more firmly this time, before exiting the room. The door was pulled shut behind him before he began heading further along the corridor to Neville's office; he had a feeling that it would be a good idea to save Caelix for last. A sharp rap of knuckles against Neville's door was given permission to enter. The door was opened to reveal Neville in his chair, leafing through a folder with a frown.

"Harry," he greeted, glancing up. Setting the folder aside, he gestured for Harry to take a seat.

"Hey, Nev," Harry smiled tiredly, dropping into an empty chair and rubbing his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Neville's voice was concerned and the worry genuine, leaving Harry with the uncontrollable urge to laugh. Nothing about his life had ever once been all right and based off of the pattern of horror and terror that had literally haunted his every step since infancy, it would continue to never be all right. With difficulty, Harry swallowed the hysterical giggle threatening to spill up his throat and past his teeth.

"I'm fine," he replied instead, raking a hand through his hair. "I was wondering if maybe you had found anything on Zabini yet?" Worried that the question made him sound rudely impatient, he continued speaking. "I mean, I know it's only been a day that I asked you to look into him and everything, so if you haven't found anything yet, that's fine. I know how busy you are and I shouldn't have just expected you to drop everything like that, so sorry," he finished lamely.

With a chuckle, Neville leaned back in his chair. "Its fine, Harry, really," he assured. "I was going to Floo you later, anyway."

The statement made Harry instantly perk up with interest. "What did you find?" he asked, leaning in close.

"Well, it's interesting," Neville answered vaguely. Harry leaned in even closer. Opening a drawer to his right, Neville pulled out an ivory dossier from within and opened it. "Ever since the war, he's been living in London, far as we can tell. He's been in the same flat for three years. Until up about five months ago, that is." Neville paused and Harry longed to tear the folder from his hands and scan it himself.

"What changed five months ago?" But Harry already knew what had changed—Zabini had finally been caught as the cheating bastard he was by Draco, and the blond had thrown him from both his home and his life. But where had Zabini gone after that? Nobody seemed to know.

"We don't know," Neville confirmed, causing Harry to wilt in disappoint. "But all trace of him vanishes. I mean it, Harry. There is absolutely no record of him being anywhere for those five months. It's like he stopped existing. But with what his mother told Malfoy and the fact that we would have been aware of him leaving the country, I'm certain he's been here the entire time he's been missing."

"Neville," Harry said slowly. "That was only a month before these attacks started. If there's been no trace of Zabini, and no clue as to our attacker…" His words trailed off. Was it possible? Could Zabini be the one responsible? Why would he just vanish like that without a trace? Where would he have gone? Nobody just disappeared like that without suspicious reasons behind it. Was it possible that his break-up with Draco had started some sort of psychotic snap, resulting in the wrathful killing of four of his housemates? Could that be the connection between them all? The motive behind the attacks? Maybe Zabini was making them all pay for his consequences. Perhaps that was the reason that Parkinson's death had been particularly brutal. Other than Malfoy, Zabini had been closest with her. They had all practically been living together, for Christ's sake.

Maybe the connection really was as personal as Harry had suspected.

But did Zabini really seem like the type? He seemed predatory and vicious, dishonest and arrogant, conceited, rude, and obnoxious. But was he a serial murderer? Was Harry jumping to accuse him only because of how much he disliked the man? Was it possible there was another explanation? Maybe Zabini and Malfoy's break-up really was coincidental timing. But Harry did not want to take chances with it, just in case his real suspicions were correct.

"Look, Neville," Harry began, not wanting to ask the man for another favor so soon after the last, but he felt he needed the help. And Neville _had_ volunteered, at any rate. "Do you think I could maybe…take you up on that offer to help out, after all?" Neville could help him keep an eye on Zabini and the rest of them, and Harry selfishly wanted more people at the Manor to hopefully act as some sort of buffer for the awkwardness sure to follow between him and Draco.

"Sure, Harry," Neville agreed, causing Harry to sag with relief. If he was being honest with himself, he would admit that it would also be comforting to have another Auror around that he trusted after the incident with the bloody packages Daphne had been sent. He had fought beside Neville numerous times in the past and trusted the man in a conflict.

"Christ, Nev, thank you," he said gratefully. "I owe you about fifty pub visits for this."

"Don't let Luna hear you say that," Neville chuckled. "She'll hold you to it."

Grinning, Harry stood up to clap the other man on the shoulder. "I'll just go tell Wescott, shall I?" He wasn't really looking forward to making a second trip to the man's office, especially so soon, but Harry had been the one to ask the favor, after all.

"Don't bother," Neville waved carelessly. "I need to speak with him about something anyway; I can just talk to him about it then."

"Okay," Harry grinned wider. "Thanks, Nev, seriously. You're the best."

With a smile, Neville waved him out the door and the moment it shut Harry's thoughts turned to apprehension.

As he stared at the wood from the other side of the closed door, his heart began pounding faster. Caelix was next on his list to visit. What would happen when they saw each other? What would happen when they were alone together? What would Harry feel? What would Caelix expect?

With every nearing footstep that rang out along the stone floor of the corridor, Harry's heart rate increased, until the muscle was hammering a painful dent into the inside of his chest. Was he ready to see Cae? Was he ready to talk about whatever it was that existed between them? Would they even talk, or would they continue to put it off, avoid it with the excuse of the case? And what exactly did Harry want to have happen?

All too soon, he found himself outside the lab doors, trying to steel himself enough to knock. With a deep breath, he reached out one hand and rapped lightly against the wood with one knuckle.

"Just come the fuck in!" a familiar voice called, and Harry pushed the door open with one slightly sweaty hand. Glancing around, he noted that the room was the same as it always was—bright lights, white walls covered in various posters depicting what Harry assumed to be all Muggle bands, single long table slicing the square room in half and always covered in strange artifacts, as well as Caelix's familiar platinum hair and colored piercings always present. He was staring at Harry in surprise, who took another deep breath and stepped inside, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

With the click of the door, the lab was plunged into a thick silence, one that Harry could almost feel as its own sticky presence clinging to his skin. He had no idea how to break it, what to say, what to discuss with the other man. He still didn't know how he felt.

"Harry," Caelix finally spoke, stepping close to the table to lean back against it. "What brings you all the way out here to my evil lair, hmm?"

"Evil lair?" Harry snorted, glancing around at the posters on the walls with obvious amusement. "This is possibly the least evil lair I think I've ever been in. Your lair sucks at being evil, Cae."

"Well, you would know all about evil lairs," said Cae, grinning at Harry. "Considering where you're staying and all."

The words automatically raised Harry's hackles and made him want to defend Draco, but he wasn't sure exactly why. Caelix had commented on the _house_ , not on the blond. And in all fairness, Cae did have a point. But those days were dead and gone and besides, Harry did not want to discuss Draco with Caelix.

"What did you find from the packages?" Harry asked instead, hoping to get the conversation focused on work rather than Malfoy or the manor.

At the change of subject, Caelix's expression twisted into frustration. "Nothing as of yet, I'm afraid, P. I mean, there's _something_ , but it's the same goddamn fucking _something_ that we've been dealing with this entire fucking case.

"We have, however," he continued, picking up a burgundy folder from the table he was leaning against, "identified exactly which body parts of the victims are still currently missing." He handed the folder to Harry, who accepted it with a pained grimace. "It's a disgustingly long list," Caelix warned him.

"I'll look at it later," Harry promised, not quite ready to be faced with that particular list yet.

The same viscous silence from earlier began to creep back into the room at the close of Harry's words. Was that all there was to say about the case? Would they be forced to discuss the whatever it was between them now, or else go mad from the quiet? Already Harry felt half-crazed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Caelix opening his mouth to speak, and he _knew_ , he just knew it would be about what had happened between them the previous day.

Hastening to beat him, Harry opened his mouth and allowed the first thought that sprang to mind to tumble free from his throat. "Why was it that you never went to Hogwarts?" He blinked in surprise at his own question. It was something he had wondered for quite a while, but he had not been expecting to ask now, of all times, to discuss Cae's past. But how much did Harry really know about him? How well did he _want_ to know him?

An attractive smile stretched Cae's face as he hopped up onto the table to survey Harry with interest. "Curious about my past now, are you?"

Blushing, Harry shrugged and waited for an answer.

"Not too much of a story in it, really." Caelix copied Harry's shrug. "My mother had attended Beauxbatons and was rather biased against Hogwarts, and my father had undertaken private education his entire schooling. I had private tutors since the age of two, and when I turned twelve, I became interested in dissecting magic and attempting to piece it back together, following the strands and learning about signatures and how to trace them. That led to several different apprenticeships with several different instructors—most of whom I look back fondly on—all focusing on different areas of magic, until at the age of sixteen I landed an apprenticeship beneath one of the Tracers in charge of the same evil lair we are currently standing in, and the rest, as I'm sure you know they say, is fucking history." The words were spoken so casually, as though the accomplishments he was describing were of an everyday sort of occurrence.

"Dissecting magic at the age of twelve," Harry muttered, feeling awed by the man. "I still had bars on my window at that age."

"What?" Caelix asked, staring at him with sharp eyes.

"Er, nothing," Harry shrugged awkwardly, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Harry—"

"Did you find out about that signature you were telling me about yesterday?" Harry blurted, interrupting Cae before he could press the subject. The other man stared at him as if he was aware of exactly what Harry was doing but answered the question without too much hesitation.

"Not yet. I got rather distracted, what with all the excitement of yesterday."

"Right," Harry nodded, unsure of what else to say. "Well, I s'pose, you know, if you do find out, you know where to find me." As he spoke, he took a step backward and cursed himself for his stumbling words and awkward retreat.

"Harry," Caelix called softly, jumping down from the table to walk forward, gliding closer and closer to Harry until the man was only several inches away. "Can we talk?"

"Talk?" Harry echoed, feeling nearly dizzy from how hard his heart was pumping blood through his body. Cae was standing so close—close enough that Harry could feel the warmth of his body, could smell the familiar leathery-scent of his cologne, raw and dirty and _arousing_.

He was staring down at Harry with an odd expression on his face. "Yeah, I don't really want to either," Caelix murmured, and in the next second, his mouth was covering Harry's and Harry was finding out exactly what it was like to kiss someone with a lip piercing. He found that he liked it. The metal felt cool and solid against the warm pliable flesh of Cae's mouth, molded softly around Harry's own.

Was Harry really kissing Cae? And was he actually enjoying it? The kiss was pleasant; it felt nice and Harry could feel himself wanting to deepen it, wanting more. But what about Draco? When Draco had kissed him, it had been electric. It had been consuming, burning, filling Harry's veins with fire and making him feel as if he didn't touch Malfoy, he would have gone mad.

Caelix's kisses were somehow different, somehow muted. There was a heat spreading through Harry's body, but it was much milder, much more gradual.

Wanting to test it, Harry hesitantly brought one hand up to cup Cae's jaw as he curled the other one somewhat awkwardly around the man's shoulder. The kiss deepened and Caelix moaned softly as he tangled one hand in Harry's hair, the other resting on his chest.

They kissed until Harry had to pull back to breathe, but Caelix refused to detach his mouth, planting kisses in a path along Harry's neck. His throat felt hot and Cae's breath was warm, but the tiny metal hoop was somehow cool and felt strangely erotic sliding over his bare skin.

"Cae…" Harry whispered, feeling pleasure tugging at him temptingly, and yet at the same time, he was drowning in guilt. How could he do this with Caelix after what had happened between him and Draco? But Malfoy didn't want him; he had made that much clearer than Harry would have ever preferred. And was Harry supposed to just allow the rejection to be thrown at him and then pine after the man forever? Would it really be fair to himself to just dismiss Cae's feelings for him? Maybe he owed it to himself to find out if he felt the same way. But how could he get involved with anyone else when he was still staying at the Manor with Draco? The situation was making Harry's head spin—that on top of the kisses still being pressed into his throat.

"Cae, wait," Harry managed. The warmth against the front of his body vanished as Caelix leaned back, but it returned half a second later as he wrapped both arms around Harry's neck.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quietly. "I know that I said I would give you time and that I wouldn't add to all the pressure being thrown on you, but I like you, Harry," he said, turquoise eyes piercing into Harry's own. "I've liked you for a long time."

"I—look, Cae…" Harry began, unsure of what else to say. He needed to be honest with the man. He needed to explain everything, confess to what had happened between him and Draco, both the previous night and that morning. He needed to be completely upfront with Caelix, and maybe then they could both figure out what to do. Harry did not want to hurt Cae, but he also did not want to lead him on. It was clear that Harry was attracted to him, he could recognize that. It was also very possible that he had real feelings for the man, but how could he start anything when he obviously had feelings for Draco as well? Not to mention the fact that Harry was currently in the middle of the bloodiest case he had ever been involved in. He needed his focus on solving the murders and stopping a lunatic, not on his dating life. Would Cae be willing to wait, maybe? Take it slow? If he liked Harry as much as he said he did, then the answer would, of course, be _yes_ , right?

But before Harry could open his mouth to find out, they were interrupted by a white Jack Russell Terrier bounding through the closed door and over to Harry. " _Harry,"_ it said in Ron's voice, " _We got something new. I think you should come back. Now."_ And with no further explanations, the Patronus dissolved, leaving a worried silence in its wake.

"Fuck. Shit," Harry swore. What was it this time? An entire fucking head in a box? "I have to go, Cae, I'm sorry."

"You're kidding me, right?" Caelix asked him incredulously, making Harry pause in disbelief. Was he seriously expecting the brunet to just ignore Ron's words and the entire case and stay there to discuss whatever it was that had been happening between them? But then he continued speaking and Harry felt guilty for thinking that of the man. "I'm coming with you, of course."

"Of course?" Harry repeated in confusion. "Why of course?"

"What if it's something worse than yesterday?" Caelix demanded, eyes glittering. "Who knows what the hell that sick bastard will send next? For Christ's sake, he sent that girl a fucking _eye,_ Harry! And of course you'll do something unnecessarily fucking rash, like touch some cursed fucking object and then probably fucking die, and I'm not risking your life, P, so suck it the fuck up and let's go."

"Has anyone ever told you that you swear quite a lot?" Harry asked him in amusement.

Snorting, Caelix made no comment, simply gesturing for Harry to lead the way.

Exiting the lab, they made the journey in complete silence, walking close together as they hurried to the Apparition point in a separate part of Headquarters reserved solely for Auror use. Once there, Harry turned and reached out for Caelix, who stepped into his touch with a smile. Closing his eyes on the sight of the intense turquoise stare flooding his own gaze, Harry concentrated on Malfoy Manor as he spun.

Several seconds later, he opened his eyes to the sight of the large Manor, standing impressively tall and gazing coolly out at its surroundings. They passed easily through the gate, metal turning to smoke as they strolled through. Caelix had not removed his grip from Harry's arm, who gently slid his limb free from the other man's grasp.

Caelix released his hold the instant he realized what Harry was trying to do. "We're going to talk about this, right?" he asked suddenly, voice small and unsure, and Harry wished more than anything that he could assure him of his feelings right there.

But he just couldn't.

"Of course," he promised, pausing to press a kiss to Cae's cheek, a gesture that surprised the both of them. "But…you know…" he waved toward the large house and Caelix nodded.

"It's fine, P, I understand. Solving crime and fighting evil first, shagging second."

At the word _shagging_ , Harry stumbled but was able to quickly regain his balance. A smirk crossed Cae's face, but he made no comment. They made their way up to the house in silence, Harry's trepidation building with every step. What were they going to find? And how would Malfoy react to the sight of him? Surely he would not be angry at Harry for not having been allowed release from guard duty, would he? Harry had tried, after all. It wasn't his fault, and so even if it was not wanted, Malfoy was just going to have to deal with his presence.

And Harry was just going to have to deal with wanting Draco and yet being unable to have him. It wasn't like _nobody_ wanted him. Caelix had made it more than clear that he wanted Harry, that he found Harry attractive and desirable.

Even if Draco Malfoy never would.

Gripping his wand tightly, Harry sent Caelix what he hoped was a reassuring smile before opening the door to the Manor and stepping into the unknown.

 

* * *

 

Pibby had told him, warned him, was never wrong, and yet when Draco descended the staircase to find Greg waiting for him at the bottom, he was surprised. And as Greg strode forward to wrap him in a bruising hug, he was downright shocked.

"Draco," Goyle greeted gruffly, crushing the smaller blond to his vast chest, and for a moment Draco felt warmed at the rare gesture. But as the hug continued, oxygen was quickly becoming an issue. With a tap on Greg's shoulder, the man got the hint and dropped his arms.

"Fuck, it's good to see you, Draco," he rumbled in the same deep voice that Draco remembered from years ago. It had been so long since he had last seen his friend.

"You too, Greg," he said sincerely. Gregory smiled at him, but Draco could see something akin to fear lurking beneath the expression.

What had brought the man back to Draco's house, in a country he no longer resided in? Had he heard about what had happened all the way out in Germany? He couldn't have. Draco had not heard a thing about it until Potter had dropped onto his doorstep out of nowhere, and the blond still lived in the country it was happening in, for Merlin's sake.

However, his lack of information was hardly surprising. It had been quite a while, ever since his father's sentencing, really, that he and his mother had been kept informed of any of the happenings between the old families.

So much had changed since his childhood.

But as Greg continued to smile at him, Draco found he was smiling back and decided that maybe some things had stayed the same, after all.

That theory was somewhat shattered, however, as Harry Potter strode from the foyer and into the main entrance. Draco felt a sudden pang at the sight of the man appearing apprehensive and alert for any signs of danger. What had Weasley said in the Patronus he had sent? What had Potter been expecting?

The pang in Draco's chest intensified as he looked the dark-haired man over. He looked just as good as he had that morning—all lovely golden skin wrapped snugly in a not-tight-enough shirt and jeans that fit the man deliciously. The color of his shirt set off the perfect green of his eyes, flashing intensely beneath the famous thatch of untamable ebony hair—hair that Draco knew the exact texture of.

Would it be too late to apologize to Harry? The man was a genuine Gryffindor, a hero, right? Surely forgiveness would come easily to such a paragon of good and virtue, yes? Surely if Draco told him how sorry he was, how he hadn't meant it, then everything would be fine again, wouldn't it? Harry would look at him again—something the man had yet to do.

Instead, he was staring at Greg, who had turned a fraction to see what Draco was looking at.

"Goyle," Potter said, masking the surprise that Draco was certain he felt.

Gregory did not even attempt to hide the surprise he felt at seeing the now-grown Potter. Deciding not to answer him, he turned to Draco instead. "Draco?"

"Maybe we should sit down," Draco suggested, nodding fractionally to Goyle, who relaxed and gestured for Draco to lead the way.

But he had only taken two steps forward when something suddenly forced him to a stop. The same man from the previous day with the same atrocious hair had slipped through the doorway and was standing directly behind Harry, one hand on the Auror's shoulder as he leaned in close to speak directly into his ear. Draco could not hear what he was saying, and he had to fight the overwhelming urge to stride over and shove the man away from Harry—an urge that was becoming more and more persistent the longer the man's hand remained on Potter's shoulder. Draco ground his teeth.

Before he could give into any urges to either hex or hit the strange pierced man, Weasley's voice sounded behind him. "Oh good, Harry," he said, footsteps echoing loudly as he jogged down the stairs. "You got my Patronus. And brought Cae," he added as he noticed the man, who grinned at the redhead.

"You shan't have any fucking hope of solving this without my help, Ronald," Caelix smirked.

Draco wanted to shout that nobody needed him, not even Weasley, and least of all Potter. For the sake of his pride, however, he managed to keep quiet.

"Cae was just checking the wards," Harry explained to Weasley, still not glancing in Draco's direction. Had Draco destroyed everything? Did Harry hate him now? Was he now with this _Caelix_? How could he be? The man had _bleached_ _hair_ , for Merlin's sake! And the parts that weren't bleached were _pink_. He had bits of metal stuck through his face!

As Weasley began speaking, Draco suddenly registered Potter's words.

"Why would you bother checking them?" he interrupted, not caring that Weasley had been in the middle of a sentence. "I've told you, the wards are solid."

"Nothing wrong with double checking," Harry responded coolly, eyes finally flicking to Draco for a fraction of a second before looking away.

"Draco," Goyle whispered, stepping close and nudging the blond. "What's going on?"

All four men turned to stare at him. "Right, Greg, sorry," Draco broke the silence. "Come on and I'll explain. Potter," he sneered, "can continue with whatever other ridiculous, asinine procedures he has constructed to waste time."

And not caring who was following him, he set a quick stride down the long corridor. Within seconds Gregory had caught up but turned to stare in surprise when Draco marched past the large doors the other man had paused at, continuing the steady pace forward instead.

"Are we not going to the drawing room?" Greg asked in confusion, gesturing behind him to the door that had already been magically sealed shut by Pibby.

Unable to help himself and knowing that Goyle's loud voice had carried to the three behind them, Draco turned his head to glance at Harry, only to find the man already staring at him. As their eyes locked, Harry flushed and looked away, leaving Draco wondering what that meant. What emotions were lurking beneath that blush? What was Harry attempting to keep hidden?

Deciding to drop it for the moment, Draco turned forward once more and shook his head at Greg as he continued to lead them down the corridor. Finally, they stopped outside of a wide set of chestnut-colored doors, light brown wood inlaid with circular panes of colored glass fitted in scattered bunches across the surface. Like the entrance to the dining room, these doors had no handles.

As the group neared the room, the doors swung open to reveal the conservatory, the one that Draco was quite certain nobody in their group but Greg had ever seen. It was large and spacious, offering an open, airy feeling. The ceiling and most of the walls were glass, one wall looking out across the gardens, another charmed to reflect purple snow-capped mountains, and another that showed a springtime sunrise gently creeping across a perfectly still lake. Draco was not sure if that lake was a real place or if it had been imagined for the charm. Every time he looked at it, he hoped it was real.

The urge to glance over his shoulder was overwhelming, and Draco gave into it to watch the three men behind him staring around in awe. Yellow sunlight filtered down through the glass ceiling high above, throwing spotlights on the hanging ivy and sweeping ferns spilling around the room. Sections of the ceiling were fitted with colored glass, casting a multicolored glow over many of the plants. And just like the rest of the grounds, the flowers here were always in bloom, always beautiful and perfect. They would never be seen as they really were, without all the magic keeping them frozen in time. A wide pond in the center of the room mirrored the versicolored ceiling in kaleidoscopic ripples of light, the reflections casting the water into even more prisms of color. Several silver fish drifted lazily through the pool, their glittering scales reflecting yet more hues until the entire pond was alight with rainbows. A large set of charmed wind chimes was tinkling gently in a non-existent breeze somewhere, playing softly over the musical trickle of water flowing into the prismatic pond, both sounds giving the room a peaceful, comforting feeling. It had been quite a while since Draco had journeyed to the conservatory, and he had nearly forgotten just how beautiful the place truly was.

He led them further into the room until they reached a set of stiff ivory-colored furniture. Sinking down onto a settee, he was immediately joined by Greg, who was glancing toward the two Gryffindors uneasily, and Draco could hardly blame the man. What would he himself be thinking, if he were in Greg's place? The bench across from Draco was taken by Harry, as well as—to Draco's extreme annoyance—Caelix, who sat far too close to the brunet for Draco's comfort.

The bench across from Draco was taken by Harry, as well as—to Draco's extreme annoyance—Caelix, who sat far too close to the brunet for Draco's comfort.

"Goyle," Potter's quiet voice drew everybody's immediate attention. "What are you doing here? We thought you were living in Germany now." He kept his gaze fixed firmly on Greg, refusing to allow his eyes to flick even momentarily in Draco's direction. He felt a hollow pang shoot through him. The only one to glance at him was Greg, who looked automatically to Draco, as though seeking permission to answer the question. Draco nodded once, in indication to respond to the man.

"I was," Greg rumbled, turning to address Harry. "But I got a letter a few days ago and it…" Clearly unsure of what words to follow that up with, his sentence trailed off into silence.

"Can I see the letter?" Harry asked politely, but Greg had already turned away from him to stare once more at Draco.

"Draco?" he said nervously. The same odd undertone of fear that had been present earlier in Greg's voice had returned. "What's going on? What are they doing here?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Draco silenced him with a pointed look. Deciding to skip politeness and pretense, Draco cast a silencing charm around Gregory and himself. He didn't want an audience listening in as he explained the recent horrors that had befallen all of their old classmates. The more he told Greg, the more horrified the expression on the man's face became, until his eyes were impossibly round and his mouth was hanging open in disbelief.

"No," he said finally, long after Draco had fallen silent. "No, Draco, I don't…it-it can't…I don't understand, it _can't_ …" he seemed to be struggling for words to describe what it could not be.

"It's true, Greg," Draco said grimly. Goyle's head dropped to stare down at his lap, causing a swell of pity to rise up in Draco and he reached out one hand to pat the man comfortingly on his large upper arm.

"So that's why Potter and Weasley are here," he spoke as he continued to pat Greg's arm. "The Ministry has deemed them to be an adequate enough shield to stand between us and certain, savage death."

"And do you agree?" Greg asked curiously, glancing up. "I think you do at least a little bit since you're letting them stay here. You think they can stop the sick fuck doing this?"

Draco glanced at Potter and was startled when he found the man already staring directly at him with frustration etched across his handsome face. What was he thinking? When he looked at Draco, what sorts of thoughts crossed his mind?

For the thousandth time, Draco wondered if it was too late to apologize. Maybe he could get Potter alone and perhaps he would be brave enough to confess everything, every single confusing feeling he felt towards the entire situation. Maybe Harry would understand and maybe he would even forgive him.

"Draco?"

Goyle's voice startled Draco into blinking as he realized that he and Harry had been staring intensely at one another in absolute silence and that Gregory was not the only one who had noticed.

Cheeks flushed crimson, Draco turned back to face the man next to him. "I do," he said simply in answer to Greg's earlier question. Of course Harry Potter would stop whoever was doing this—he was _Harry_ bloody _Potter_ , for goodness' sake. The man was the most heroic sodding person to ever walk the blasted earth, after all. He was the Slayer of All Things Evil and Bad and the Vanquisher of Immortal Dark Lords, battling for the forces of good and righting daily injustices and constantly saving puppies and newborn babies every other minute of the day. Right?

Harry Potter had never failed before.

"What are you doing here, Greg?" Draco asked, steering the subject away from Harry Potter. The man spent more than enough time in Draco's thoughts, he did not need to also be talking about him every single second as well.

"I got a letter," Goyle glanced around uneasily. "It was…weird. I thought maybe I should come back. And then when I got here, Mum said that you'd spoken to her not too long ago asking about me. So I decided I'd better come here to see you." He glanced around the conservatory as if speaking specifically about that room.

"Do you have the letter with you?"

Nodding, Greg reached into his pocket and extracted a heavy-looking envelope. He held it out to Draco, who accepted it with nervous hands. What would it say? Would it be something along the lines of the message that Daphne had received?

Fingers trembling slightly, Draco pulled a thick square of parchment from the envelope and unfolded it. In big, blocky letters was written:

_GREGORY GOYLE,_

_YOU CAN'T RUN FROM YOUR PAST_  
_YOU CAN'T ESCAPE YOUR CRIMES  
_ _YOUR SINS HAVE A WAY OF CATCHING UP TO YOU_

_I'LL BE SEEING YOU SOON_

"Does that mean I'm next, Draco?"

The question was spoken in a quiet, terrified voice, and Draco unfroze as he looked up from the parchment to stare Greg in his fearful brown eyes. Was Gregory next? God, Draco hoped not; he had known Greg his entire life and could not let anything happen to him. The man was the only friend he now had in the entire world.

"No, it doesn't," he assured Goyle, folding the letter up and sliding it back into the envelope. After the presents Daphne had received the previous day, Draco felt fairly certain that Greg was not the next Slytherin on the list. Sending the other man what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he cancelled the silencing charm around them, just in time to hear Weasley's voice speaking loudly.

"But why would you do that, Harry?"

Instantly, Draco's heart began to pound a fierce beat, certain that Harry had confessed what had happened between them and Weasley was now going to throw a disgusted fit. But as Harry began to speak, Draco forced himself to calm down enough to listen. Perhaps it wasn't what he thought.

"I dunno, Ron, I just…" Potter raked a hand through his hair. "Maybe I just thought I would be more useful if I was assigned to a different part of the case, that's all."

At the words, Draco felt his stomach drop. Potter was being reassigned? Was that why he had gone into the Ministry that morning? He no longer wanted to be there at the Manor? He no longer wanted to be around Draco?

"Yeah, but, Harry," Weasley said, frustration evident in his voice. "Why would you just go to Wescott like that without even talking to me about it first?"

 _Yes, Potter, why_? Draco demanded internally, not wanting to speak aloud and alert them to the fact that the silencing charm that had shrouded them was no longer in effect.

"I just—it was just a…spur of the moment sort of thing, you know?" Harry sighed, sounding weary.

To Draco's growing rage, Caelix reached out a hand to rub across Harry's back comfortingly. Potter turned to the man and smiled a tiny smile, causing Draco to grit his teeth painfully together. So, Potter really was involved with Caelix. Had they been involved the entire time, even before the man had shown up at Draco's bedroom door and kissed the blond in a way that had made his insides feel like they were melting?

A murderous glare was cementing itself onto Draco's face, one he was unable to fight. How dare Harry Potter make him feel so amazing, so on fire one night, only to shove into Draco's face the sight of him cuddling up to his bloody _lover_ the bloody fucking _very next day_.

His fingers twitched and he had to fight the urge to whip out his wand or overturn furniture.

As Draco attempted to calm himself, Potter glanced over at him and their gazes locked. The man looked surprised and slightly alarmed by the sheer fury that Draco could feel emanating from his entire body, but the shock quickly faded away to be replaced by a defiant expression, as though daring Draco to throw the tantrum he longed to.

Gritting his teeth, Draco forced himself to look away. He turned to find Greg staring at him curiously, most likely wondering why Draco was suddenly so furious.

"Well, I'm glad Wescott turned down your request," Weasley continued, not noticing the glares being exchanged between Draco and Harry. Caelix had not removed his hand from Potter's back and was staring at both him and Draco with a strange expression.

"I spoke to Neville today as well. He's going to come help out," Potter blurted suddenly, as though he was aware of the suspicious gaze being directed at him by Caelix and wanting to avoid it by changing the subject. "He should be by later today, or tomorrow, maybe."

"Longbottom?" Draco asked flatly, the single word snapping all attention onto himself. "Longbottom will be staying here as well? How many fucking Gryffindors do you expect me to house?"

"However many it will take to save your ungrateful life," Potter shot back in annoyance, green eyes narrowed into a glare. Weasley stared between the two men in confusion.

At the words, Draco could feel his own features reflecting shock, and, for just the briefest of seconds, a hurt so deep that he could feel it all the way down in his very bones. Schooling his expression once more into his usual unreadable mask and trying to fight the burning in his eyes, he stood and flung his arm out sharply to offer the envelope still clenched in one fist to Weasley, who took it with another puzzled look.

"Tell them everything that happened, Greg," Draco said to the large man sitting in silent bewilderment. "Perform whatever spells you want on the letter. I'm going to find Blaise and check on Daphne." He was not at all certain if he really did want to find Blaise, but noted with satisfaction the way Harry's eyes narrowed dangerously when he mentioned the man.

Turning from the others, he had barely started to cross the room when the door they had entered through swung open and Blaise and Daphne strolled through as though summoned, glancing toward the group with obvious interest. Daphne drifted daintily toward the three men still seated, sinking down onto the section of the bench so recently vacated by Draco.

Instead of following her to where the others sat, Blaise sauntered directly over to Draco, standing far closer than was necessary and leaning in even further as he spoke. "And why weren't Daphne and I invited to your little meeting?"

Sighing, Draco gestured toward the settee that the other two remaining Slytherins were seated on. "Greg just arrived. They're filling him in on everything."

"Ah," Blaise said, leaning around Draco to nod a greeting to Goyle.

"He was just on his way to find you," the man offered, and Draco sighed heavily again at the delighted smile that spread across Blaise's handsome face in response.

"Is that true, Draco?" Blaise asked in a soft voice, head bowed shyly as he peered up at Draco from beneath long lashes. "Were you coming to find me?"

Against his better judgement, even while knowing that the man's bashful act was simply that—an act—Draco found himself nodding.

"Well, here I am," Blaise said coyly, shifting his weight closer. "We could go somewhere more…private, love, if you wish to talk."

Before he was aware of it, Draco nodded, then caught himself and quickly shook his head.

"Mm, is that a yes or a no?" Blaise murmured, raising a hand to stroke Draco's cheek.

Unable to stop himself, Draco flinched away from the contact, a small movement that he was not sure if anybody but Blaise noticed. The dark hand dropped immediately.

"So, you wanted to find me, but not talk," said Blaise flatly, crossing his arms but not moving any farther away.

Shrugging helplessly, Draco fought the overwhelming urge to glance back at Potter. What was the man thinking? Was he watching their exchange? Or was he too busy focusing on Caelix to even remember that Draco was in the room?

"Please, Draco," Blaise pleaded quietly, ignoring the warning in Draco's eyes as he raised the same hand as before to lightly caress one alabaster cheekbone. His fingers were warm, his touch so achingly familiar, and Draco could not help but lean into the gentle contact. Blaise's eyes seemed to burn right through Draco, piercing straight through his pale skin and defenseless bones and flooding his body with a stabbing heat that he was not sure was shame, embarrassment, or arousal—but he could not look away. He could not step away. His body felt disconnected from his mind, and no matter how much his brain was screaming at him to shake off the bastard's lying, unfaithful touch, his legs seemed either unable or unwilling to respond.

A throat cleared loudly from somewhere behind Draco, snapping him from his daze and causing his head to whip around automatically. Harry was glaring vicious daggers at the both of them and Draco felt himself instantly turn red as he took a stiff step backward, out of the reach of Blaise's dangerous touch.

To the blond's surprise, Blaise turned his own seething glare onto Potter, who did not look away. The two men stayed like that, glowering at each other for long seconds before Weasley awkwardly broke the tense silence with a question.

"Erm, did you want to look at the letter, Harry?"

Every gaze around him snapped onto the redhead, who ignored them all as he held out the envelope for Harry to take. Accepting it warily, Potter scanned it before passing it to Caelix, who immediately began casting various spells on its surface.

In contrast to his negative feelings toward the man, Draco watched in fascination as the letter glowed bright blue and began to curl in on itself before smoothing slowly out and gradually fading back to the color of cream. Caelix waved his wand again and the letter vanished, disappearing off to what Draco assumed would be the man's lab for further tests. Despite the pettiness of his own reaction, Draco found himself childishly wishing that the object really was cursed and that Caelix would catch the brunt of it, but then shook his head internally and took it all back as he remembered that he too had handled the letter.

A heavy, strained quiet fell over the conservatory, somehow managing to mute even the calming sounds of water trickling into the pond and the charmed wind chimes still tinkling metallically somewhere. Staring away from the two sets of eyes he could feel burning into him—one pair brown, one pair green—Draco gazed off into the distance of the lengthy room, focusing his attentions on a large Kashmir cypress stretched toward the glass ceiling in the corner furthest from him. It was the only one of its kind in the entire conservatory and Draco had always found it to be rather out of place for some reason, yet also somehow seeming to look and fit in beautifully surrounded by masses of purple bell vines. The vines crept along and covered the glass walls encircling the cypress, several leafy tendrils crossing over the tree to drape delicately atop the sweeping branches. The limbs of the tall Kashmir drooped low, reaching down toward the floor and shielding the brown of the trunk completely with its pendulous blue-green needles. The thin finger-like leaves brushed against the ground in a mournful, forlorn-looking way. It made the proud cypress look bent and hunched, appearing sad and defeated in the dazzling sunshine haloing it.

Or maybe Draco was simply projecting his emotions onto a fucking tree.

Either way, he wished he could be hidden as easily from the world as the brown bark he was unable to see, no matter how much his gaze attempted to pierce the heavy foliage screening it. He could still feel the two sets of eyes piercing into him, raking over him with an uncomfortable ferocity, burning into his flesh, attempting to scorch his skin with the intensity of their stares. He itched to shout at the both of them, maybe throw something heavy through the glass wall nearest him, or else just simply storm from the room.

His legs twitched restlessly, his body clearly in favor of fleeing, but fortunately for him, he was saved from deciding between the unappealing options by the arrival of Pibby. The sudden crack of the elf appearing made everybody jump, and their heads whipped as one to focus on the tiny creature now standing before Draco. "Master Draco, sir! You is getting an owl, sir," the elf squeaked as he handed Draco a blank envelope before bowing and vanishing with another loud crack.

As he slit the seal and shook the letter loose, Draco could feel every set of eyes fixed on him. Was it from the killer? Was it now Draco's turn to receive a horrible threatening message? His pale fingers trembled as he unfolded the thin parchment, and it was with an audible sigh of relief that he recognized Wisp's slanted handwriting.

 _Tomorrow, same as our first._  
_Don't be late._  
_W_

Still ignoring the stares, Draco touched the tip of his wand to the parchment and watched in satisfaction as a single greedy flame devoured the dry paper. "It's nothing to worry about," he said mildly, eyes following the grey smoke as it drifted in delicate spirals through the air above his head.

"Who was that from, Malfoy?" Potter's voice demanded, causing the blond to slowly lower his gaze until he was staring the other man in the eye.

"Nobody to worry about," he insisted in a tone of voice that he hoped would prevent the Auror from attempting to push the question with so large an audience around.

But as Potter rose from his seat and began to stalk closer, Draco wondered if maybe he should start practicing his threatening tones more often. They were clearly not having the desired effect.

"Dammit, Malfoy," Harry all but growled, " _who was that from_?" His hands were clenching and relaxing, as though he was longing to wrap them around Draco's arms and shake him roughly, something that Draco found himself sort of wishing would happen, if not for any other reason than the pleasure of the man's touch. But the words and the commanding tone they were spoken in made his eyes narrow.

"Why do you even care, Potter?" His voice was tight and angry. How dare the man think Draco owe him answers about everything or anything, even if he was there to save the blond's life? Potter did not get to care what happened to him, not if he was involved with someone else. "Concerned about my ungrateful life now, are you?" He sneered the words and watched in satisfaction as Harry's face twisted with rage. The man turned red and took a step closer, and Draco was suddenly worried that he was about to be punched in the face by a furious Harry Potter, something that he was not at all unfamiliar with.

Blaise seemed to be thinking the same thing because he was suddenly at Draco's side and Draco could see the wand that the man clutched tightly in a tense brown fist hanging near his thigh. Draco blinked at him in surprise, not having expected his ex to come to his rescue. Not that he needed rescuing, of course, especially by Blaise, and especially if he was there to save him from Harry Potter.

Potter swung his glare onto Blaise, but took a step back and seemed to be attempting to calm himself. "You're right, Malfoy," he said in a clipped, frosty voice, folding his arms as he gazed bitterly at Draco, the man's eyes like two tiny blocks of ice embedded within a hostile expression. "Why the hell would I ever care what happened to _you_?"

Unable to stop himself, Draco flinched and took an automatic step back. He did not want to admit to himself how much that had hurt, but he could feel a prickling beginning behind his eyes and knew that he had to get out of there before the first teardrop fell. He could never show weakness to Harry Potter, never show just how deeply those icy words had cut.

"Good," he spat viciously before turning on his heel and striding away as quickly as he dared. As he hurried away, he prayed that Blaise would have the good sense not to chase after him. If the man tried to force another confrontation at that moment, Draco could not be held responsible for his actions.

Unable to face the thought of so many stairs in his anger, he entered the first room he came to and cast several furious locking and silencing spells on the door before turning and beginning to fling hex after hex at the objects in the room, reducing them to nothing but rubble and ash spread amongst wide puddles of shattered glass.

Finally, there was nothing left to destroy and a heavy exhaustion swept through Draco, forcing him to drop to his lethargic knees in defeat. In his weary state, he was unable to fight the damned tears sliding down his cheeks, and he curled into a lonely ball to gently sob into the haunted silence of his own aching misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand The End. For Now. TBC and all that. Sorry if this chapter was just a little bit depressing! But also probably don't expect it to cheer up anytime soon. Also, I apologize now if there ends up being another long stretch of time between chapters. It really was like pulling fucking teeth just to get this one finished. I promise, however, that I will try my most sincerely and will hopefully be updating again soon.
> 
> Buuuuut anyway Internet, what are we thinking of the story at this point, huh? Too much drama? Not enough murder? Too many misunderstandings? Not enough Blaise? What did we think of the Harry/Caelix kiss? What do we think of Goyle so far? How does everyone feel about Neville joining the slumber party? Who do we think is going to be the first to die? I want to hear from every single one of you! Kind reviews are medicine for my shattered focus and fragile mental state. Please, help heal me.


	13. With One I Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So before we begin the chapter, there are a coupla things that I would like to address real quick:
> 
> First—Ron's behavior has been mentioned by several of you. I know that his easy acceptance of practically everything really is pretty damn laid-back to what it most likely would be, but I figured the story was already dramatic enough without any hypothetical resentment coming from him. Plus, I just see it as petty if he continued to hate Draco through all this bloodshed, grief, and loss. So for the sake of the story, he is Mellow Ron. Also, I feel like a lot of writers tend to make him this inhumanly angry, unforgiving character and I've just never seen him that way. I really rather like the idea of a mature Ronald Weasley. I just can't write the Weasleys in any sort of negative light, they are too dear to my heart.
> 
> Secondly, the length of this story has been mentioned to me by quite a few of you, and I'm sorry that I am unable to answer in specifics. In all honesty, I never really know how long my stories are going to be. I never plan a set length, what I write is what I write. If anybody hasn't guessed it by now, this story is going to be a long one. If I were to guess, I would put the remaining length at somewhere around eight or nine or so chapters still to go. But who knows! It could literally be any number. I know the story is already pretty long and slightly detailed, but I swear I don't do it on purpose just to drag it out.
> 
> And lastly, I would like to say that if something within the story doesn't make total complete sense to you, don't analyze it too deeply. I have the bad habit of writing facts to fit the story and not the other way around. But if you have any questions, please feel free to message me about them. I promise to answer to the best of my ability without giving too much away.
> 
> Now, this chapter picks up right where the last one left off, just in case anyone was wanting to see the exchange between Harry and Blaise over Draco. Also, get ready for a couple of new faces at the Manor! Unfortunately, only one will be staying. (Even though this is the funnest fucking slumber party ever and everyone is just always smiling and having a goddamn muthafuckin' party!)
> 
> But that is it for me! Time for the actual story! So much excitement ohmygod let's do this right now yaaay!

_Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse unreturn'd love,_  
_But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain one way or another,_  
_(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd,_  
_Yet out of that I have written these songs)._

"Sometimes with One I Love"—Walt Whitman

 

* * *

 

The sound of footsteps faded away, and the room was left in ringing silence. As Draco stalked rigidly away, back tense and angry, Harry felt a deep flash of guilt jolt sharply through him. Why had he said that? Christ, Draco had looked almost as if he was about to  _cry_. Oh, God. Was he crying now? At that very moment, maybe? Knowing Draco, he was most likely hidden somewhere, unwilling to show any sort of vulnerability to anybody.

But did Harry still know Draco? The way Malfoy had been acting, the heat of his glares, his mordant comments…

But the way he had looked before he turned so suddenly and left…

"May I speak with you for a moment, Potter?" Zabini's soft voice jerked Harry from his confused and painful thoughts. His words were polite, but there was an undercurrent of something threatening behind them, like low thunder along distant mountains. It made Harry clench his wand even tighter. His gaze flicked from the empty air Draco had occupied so recently to land on the dark-skinned man who had spoken. He had no desire to speak to Zabini, but grit his teeth in agreement and jerked his head as he cast a privacy charm around them. He did not trust anything about the man and was not about to walk off alone with him.

"What?" he asked flatly, folding his arms. A strong—and extremely loud—part of himself was screaming to find Draco, apologize for the words he had not meant, and then plead forgiveness. How could Harry have let his anger get away from him? Especially while Draco was under such stress and terror, not to mention still in mourning for his friends?

"Are you always so obscenely blunt?" Zabini's acerbic drawl sliced sourly through the heavy regret shrouding Harry. "Or was that particular trait something you learned at a young age?"

"You're the one who wanted to talk," Harry snapped. His patience had been worn thin ages ago—he now had none left to spare on the obnoxious man standing before him.

"I meant with Draco!"

The words caused another burning splash of guilt to surge down Harry's throat and into his stomach, pooling and settling hotly, making his insides feel raw and blistered. Zabini was right. He had no excuse for saying those things, not even if Draco had hurt him first. He had clearly upset the blond and he felt shame and regret scorch through him in blistering waves.

But he was damned if he was going to admit his agreement with Zabini.

"As if Draco needs  _you_  to protect him," Harry scoffed instead. "I think we both know what little trust he places in you, Zabini. Which is none, and we both fucking know why." He took a step nearer. "Am I being blunt enough for you?"

"You don't know the first fucking thing about Draco or me," said Zabini, eyes narrowing. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Potter."

"Draco told me everything," said Harry in a quiet voice, smiling coldly and raising one eyebrow. "We've been getting to know each other pretty well, actually. Didn't you know?" He wasn't sure if he should be saying those things, did not want to be giving in to the vicious type of game that Zabini obviously enjoyed playing, but he could not seem to help himself. He wanted the man to know what had happened, even if Harry did not actually get to be with Draco. He just wanted somebody to know. "I guess he didn't tell you."

Zabini's eyes flashed and Harry smirked. The grip the other man had on his wand tightened visibly and Harry cocked the same eyebrow as before, not bothering to raise his own wand. If the man wanted a fight, there was only going to be one outcome, of that Harry was certain. And it did not include anything ending well for Zabini. Harry's palms itched and he hoped the other man really would try something.

To his disappointment, however, Zabini relaxed the fist around his wand and leaned his weight onto his back foot to survey Harry coolly. "I'm not worried," he said finally, copying Harry's posture and folding his arms. "I still know Draco better than any other living person." His voice lowered to a smooth, velvet purr, one that made the hair on Harry's arms stand up in discomfort. "I know what he feels like beneath me, know what he sounds like screaming my name. I know what it feels like to be buried inside him, his tight body stretched so deliciously around me, know the sounds of his pleas as he begs for more. I know exactly which spots make him writhe and moan, and which make him arch his back and cry for more. I know where he likes to be bitten and exactly how hard. I know when and how forcefully to pull his hair, when to tease and when to satisfy. I know when to be rough and exactly how much pain he enjoys with his pleasure. I know how to make him come so hard he sees stars, Potter."

The final statement curled smoothly to a close, like poisonous smoke rising through clean air, polluting their surroundings until Harry was having trouble drawing breath through the thick haze of his own fury. Once again, Zabini's words had frozen Harry to the spot with the intense force of his anger. A hollow ringing was echoing in his ears, and he could feel every pounding thud of blood passing behind his eyes. Something in him snapped and before he was even aware of his actions, he stepped forward and seized Zabini by the collar, yanking the man toward him until their noses were only centimeters apart. The brown eyes staring into his own were wide and startled, for once devoid of that smug confidence that had polluted the man in billowing clouds only moments ago.

"Shut the fuck up, Zabini!" Harry growled, shaking him roughly. He longed to shake him to pieces, shatter him beneath the violent force of his rage. He wanted to curse him into unrecognizable shards. Aside from the Dursleys—and Umbridge—he could not remember ever having hated anybody as strongly as he loathed the man in his grasp. "You don't fucking know him!" Harry lowered his voice but his hold on Zabini, if anything, tightened even further.

Suddenly, two hands were gripping his arms and the front of Zabini's shirt was being wrenched from his clutches.

"Bloody hell, Harry!"

At Ron's familiar voice, Harry instantly released the infuriating man clutched so violently between his trembling fists. Caelix was already at his side, one hand on Harry's arm as he looked at him with worry in his eyes. Zabini straightened his clothing and sneered, but Harry could see the shock the man still felt in his stiff movements.

"Your concern for him really is rather touching," Zabini said smoothly, crossing his arms and appearing impressively unfazed. "I'm certain he would be moved, as well. I'll be sure to let him know, shall I?" And before Harry could respond, the man turned and exited along the same path as Draco.

"Fuck, Harry! What the fuck was that about?" Ron demanded, turning him around to face the redhead fully.

"Nothing," Harry mumbled, raking a hand through his hair. He couldn't believe himself. After reminding himself so many times not to allow Zabini to get to him, he had lost control so easily like that, had just  _snapped_. But the things the man had been saying…

"That clearly wasn't nothing!" shouted Ron, before sighing in frustration and releasing his hold on the brunet. "Come on," he said, casting a glance back toward Goyle and Greengrass, both of whom were staring at Harry with their mouths hanging open. He flushed and looked away, following Ron out into the hallway, Caelix trailing close behind.

Once the doors had swung shut behind them, Ron turned to fix Harry with a piercing blue stare. "What the hell was all that about, Harry?"

With a helpless shrug, Harry kept his gaze fixed to the floor. How was he supposed to answer him? How was he supposed to explain everything—especially in front of Caelix? Harry knew they needed to talk about everything, and he had every intention of being honest with the man, but it was a talk he would really rather prefer not to have in front of Ron.

"Harry, you just attacked Zabini," the redhead reminded hotly. "And what the bloody fuck was all that about with Malfoy earlier? What aren't you telling me?"

There was a layer of hurt beneath his words, one that made Harry's insides twist uncomfortably. He and Ron shared everything, told each other  _everything_. They had seen each other nearly every single day for ten years, risked their lives together countless times, had been best mates since the moment they had met. Yet how could Harry tell him about  _this_? How could he tell  _Ron_  that he had feelings for  _Malfoy_? And that those feelings went unreturned?

Caelix leaned against a wall nearby, and even without looking, Harry could feel his stare piercing him.  _Fuck_. Of course Caelix would know exactly what that had all been about; the man was far too intelligent for Harry. And it was not as if any of the three men had exactly been subtle about what was going on between them.

Steeling himself, Harry turned to lock gazes with Cae. The man was staring at him intensely, an unreadable expression on his face, but when Harry made eye contact, he looked away. A pang of guilt tore through the brunet, but the next second he was distracted by Ron's voice.

"Did you and Malfoy have a fight this morning? Is that why you wanted to be moved to another part of the investigation?"

Deciding the words were true enough, Harry nodded. "Sometimes we just…have too much of a past, you know?"

Ron nodded slowly. "I thought you two had worked through that, though? I thought you were friends now?"

Smiling sadly, Harry shrugged. "I thought we were, too."  _Before I had to fuck it all up_.

"And what about you and Zabini? Last I knew, the two of you have never had any sort of past."

The reminder of the man caused Harry's teeth to clench. "He's a fucking bastard," he ground out. "I just never knew that until recently."

"But if it's gonna be a problem, Harry…" Ron trailed off.

"It won't be," said Harry sharply. "Just because I don't like him doesn't mean I can't do my job or I'll forget why I'm here. We're all adults, Ron. It's fine." He was extremely sure that the entire situation was anything but fine, but he kept his gaze locked evenly with Ron's, willing his friend to believe him and drop the subject.

After long moments, Ron sighed. "Fine," he relented. "But promise me that you will _not_  attack Zabini again. I mean it. You better hope he doesn't report you, Harry."

With a sinking feeling, Harry nodded. That seemed just the sort of petty thing the man would do. But would he want to draw attention to himself from the Ministry? Especially if Harry's suspicions were correct and he really did have a more-than-questionable background? All he could do was hope Zabini would not press it.

"Yeah, I promise," he agreed wearily.

"Good," Ron appeared satisfied. "I'm going back in to talk with Goyle and Greengrass." And without waiting for a reply, he reentered the conservatory, leaving Harry alone with a silent Caelix.

"I'm sorry about all that," Harry said weakly, gesturing behind him toward the door Ron had just disappeared through. "It's not usually as dramatic as all that round here." Not so long ago, he and Draco had been getting along so well, so easily. Had that vanished forever?

Caelix smiled at the pathetic attempt at humor, but it was not his usual cheerful grin. This one was smaller, tighter. It did not reach his eyes. "Yes, well, I s'pose I should get going," he said quietly, pushing away from the wall. "This latest letter might give us something. I'll let you know if it does." He turned from Harry and began striding down the corridor toward the main entrance.

Legs responding automatically, Harry hurried to catch up to him. "Wait!" he called, reaching out a hand to pull the other man to a stop. "Cae, wait."

Caelix allowed himself to be pulled to a halt but did not turn to face Harry, who ignored his reluctance and stepped in front of him to face the taller man directly. "I have to get back to work, Harry," he said uncomfortably, looking past the brunet to the paintings along the walls.

"Cae, I…" Harry hesitated, unsure of what to say, how to explain. "…I didn't…I just…" Dragging a hand through his hair, he sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I just—I just…I'm sorry." He tugged at his hair in agitation. Would he ever be certain of anything he felt? Would he ever be able to find the words to explain what he was feeling, in regards to anything? Would Caelix believe him and possibly understand if he told him how confused he was? How little he knew at that point in time? Would Cae accept that and be willing to be patient?

"It's okay, Harry," Caelix said softly, finally glancing at him. "Really. Look," he sighed quietly, "clearly this is more complicated than I initially thought. We do need to talk, we really do. But not here." He glanced around uneasily, as though expecting to find Dark wizards hidden behind a potted plant somewhere, listening to their exchange. "But…could you meet later sometime? Tonight, or tomorrow, maybe?" His voice had taken on a hopeful tinge. "Whenever Neville shows up, I mean, maybe we could meet up for a bit. Go for a drink or something, yeah? Or we could have dinner. Or we could just talk, you know, it doesn't have to be, like,  _something_ , you know?" He clamped his lips shut, but his babbling made Harry smile.

"Yeah, Cae, sure," he agreed softly, not quite certain he was doing the right thing but felt strongly that yes, he needed to lay everything out for Caelix and allow the man to make his own choice about the situation. Besides, he was already planning on going out the following night. Tomorrow was Friday, and that meant that there was a possibility that that man that Samaira had spoken of, Rhys, would be at the pub, and there was a possibility that he would have answers about Zabini. "I'll let you know the second Nev arrives, yeah?"

"Okay, yes," Caelix nodded, looking relieved. "I'll see you later, then, P." And with one final lingering glance, Caelix turned and strode away. Harry watched his figure get smaller and smaller until he rounded the corner that led to the grand staircase and he was gone.

With another heavy sigh, Harry rubbed the back of his neck and turned to face the corridor he had just come from. Should he go back and help Ron? Explain things to Goyle maybe? Offer Daphne comfort? Or should he go find Malfoy and try to apologize? Or did Malfoy want space? Maybe he just needed some time to himself, and Harry's presence would only make things worse. Or maybe that was just the coward in Harry talking, he wasn't sure.

With a resigned shrug, he headed back to the conservatory. He had no clue where Draco had gone and did not fancy the idea of searching every room in the monstrously large house for the man. He would give Malfoy time to calm and time for himself to work out a good enough apology for the blond.

He could only hope that Draco would listen.

 

* * *

 

The floor was hard and uncomfortable beneath him. As he slowly uncurled his long body to stretch his sore muscles, Draco was unable to fight the small grimace that he could feel twisting his features. Next time, he would be sure to cast a cushioning charm on the floor before succumbing to his pathetic misery. Not that he expected there to be a next time, of course. He had cried more in the past few weeks than he ever had in his entire life, and, after this latest breakdown, hoped to God that the tears had finally run dry. How long had he been holed up, sobbing in the demolished room? It felt like hours.

Looking around at what was left of his surroundings, he frowned. Not even the wallpaper had survived. It appeared as though Pibby was going to have to seal that room off, as well.

As he scanned the extent of the damage done to his surroundings, his eyes landed on the door and he groaned. He knew that he could not stay in the destroyed room forever, but he was not looking forward to leaving it and risking running into anybody. For a moment, he wondered if it would be easier to cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and sneak upstairs to his chambers, but he paused just as he started to reach for his wand. Was he truly that craven?

Possibly, he admitted, but he was just not ready to see anybody else, especially Blaise, and especially Harry. Or should Draco go back to thinking of him as Potter once again? Obviously, the man was no longer interested in any sort of familiarity existing between the two. Had he felt that way that morning, before he had spoken to Draco? Or was it only after Draco had snapped? Had the feeling set in before or after Draco had told him to get out, practically throwing the dark-haired man from the library?

And now Harry hated him and Draco would be forever unable to face him—just as he was unable to face Blaise. For the indeterminable future, it appeared Draco was doomed to hiding in random rooms in his own house.

Well, fuck that. He would not be cowed into hiding within his own fucking home; not ever again.

With a new determination squaring the line of his shoulders, he stood and dusted himself off. Once satisfied with his robes, he paused to perform the handy spell that removed any trace of recent tears, removing the blotchy red from the skin of his face and returning the puffiness around his eyes to their normal state.

Conjuring himself a glass of water, he sipped it slowly as he called for Pibby. The elf appeared within seconds accompanied by his usual loud  _crack_.

"Master Draco, sir!" the elf shrilled. "Is you being all right? The guests is all being worried about you, sir, very very worried, just as I is being worried about you, too. Is you hungry? Is you needing looking after? Please, sir, can Pibby be serving his Master Draco now?" The elf blinked up at him with large, worried eyes, appearing somber and genuinely concerned, and for a moment, Draco was touched.

Until he remembered that a house-elf's adoration was not hard-earned and that the tiny creature's devotion was hardly reflective of the blond. They cared for their masters, it was what they did. But at least with Pibby, Draco would always be the top priority.

Instead of cheering him up, the thought only saddened him further. Glancing around at the exploded furniture, broken windows, gaping holes in the walls, and mounds of shattered glass, he addressed the elf. "Don't worry about fixing anything, Pibby, or attempting to restore it. Just seal the entire room off."

The house-elf squeaked an affirmative as Draco swept through the doorway, wondering if Pibby had been telling the truth earlier when he said that everybody had been worried about him. He honestly was not sure if he would prefer worry or indifference.

And at the thought of the others worrying, he couldn't help but wonder if Potter had been one of them. If he was even still there, that is. Perhaps he had left with his pierced lover, off doing what Draco did not want to think about. Things he and Potter would obviously never have the chance to do.

But Draco could picture it all so clearly. He could picture them doing  _everything_ , and he felt a flush at the thought of what that  _everything_  included. It made his body feel warm and his pulse speed up.

But more than anything, it hurt to imagine—because those fantasies would never come true.

Forcing the painful images from his mind, he shut the door behind him, knowing Pibby would begin sealing it off immediately and imagined he could hear the sounds of the elf's magic as it locked the room.

With a sigh, he turned back to the hallway and began the trek to his suite. Despite the earlier determination he had felt before leaving the recently-destroyed temporary sanctuary, he now felt nervous at the thought of running into anybody. As he climbed the marble staircase, his heart was hammering in his chest, certain that at any moment, Blaise was going to jump out and accost him, or Potter was going to march up to him and begin shouting.

Once he reached the landing, his apprehension only worsened. Hurrying down the long hallway to his chambers, eyes darting nervously around for signs of anyone approaching, he slipped inside and leant back against the door before releasing the breath he had been holding. With a frown, he straightened before crossing to his bedroom. It wasn't that he was scared of the others or anything. He just had no particular desire to see any of them. Especially when the sight of more than one of them caused more than one unnamable emotion within Draco, and he had no desire to be confused any further by either Harry or Blaise. He had no desire for any sort of confrontation at that moment.

There was something, however, that he did desire.

With a flick of his wand, the large whisky bottle still atop the table near the fireplace soared into the bedroom ahead of him.

 

The next day was spent almost entirely in blessed solitude. He took his meals in his room and spoke to no one. The silencing charms he had set around his chambers allowed him total privacy, unable to hear anybody knocking had any of the others chosen to try to visit. The morning light had not brought with it any desire to see anybody else. And nobody could make him until he was ready. Maybe he would just stay in his room until the entire investigation was over. Pibby could bring him his meals and his books, and Draco could simply wait out the bloodshed within the safe confines of his own bedroom.

Starting the next day, of course. Soon he would be leaving to meet with Wisp. His message had told Draco to meet him at the same time and location as their first meeting, meaning later that night at the Den of the Lion.

Draco would be there. And Wisp would have answers for him.

 

The next hour was spent staring into the fireplace, contemplating his upcoming meeting with the ex-Hit Wizard. Would he confirm what Draco had initially believed to be impossible? Would he inform him that Cyril Crabbe really had somehow escaped Azkaban? Would he affirm Draco's fears that the man was now out murdering his late son's classmates in some form of twisted, gruesome vengeance?

As he rested his head back against the chair, waiting for the allotted hour to arrive, he could not help but think of Vince and his father. Against his will, another unpleasant memory of Cyril Crabbe forced itself into his mind, making his stomach churn. The three younger Slytherins had once again been over at Vincent's, sometime during the summer between their third and fourth years at Hogwarts. They had been playing and messing around, laughing and running through the hall between Vince's bedroom and the second-level sitting room, when Cyril stormed upstairs out of nowhere, screaming at Vincent for making too much goddamn noise. He grabbed Vince by the front of his robes and hauled him nearly off his feet as he shouted in his face, yelling about the ungrateful annoyance that was Vincent and how Cyril could not fucking wait until Hogwarts started once again so the boy would no longer be underfoot.

The second Cyril had appeared, Draco and Greg had melted into the shadows of an open doorway, holding their breath and wishing there was something they could do. Draco had considered telling his parents everything he had seen but knew that his father would not care enough to intervene, and even if he did, he had never been a good enough parent to offer tips to or pass judgement on another. And while Draco knew that his mother would care, he also knew that there was nothing she could do. Even in her own home, she was powerless.

Finally, Cyril wore himself out with his anger, and with a last look of disgust, threw Vincent violently away from himself. Vince landed heavily against the wall and crumpled to the floor, curling up and trying to make himself appear as small as possible. He let out a small sniffle, one that earned another contemptuous glare from his father.

"You're nothing but a fucking disappointment," the man spat, before turning and stomping back downstairs.

As the sounds of his angry footsteps faded away, the hallway fell into absolute silence. Vince had not moved from his balled-up position on the floor, and Draco was completely unsure of what to say to make the moment okay again. He had never been any good at comforting others and felt distinctly uncomfortable at the pressure of having to do so.

But Greg moved first. "You okay?" he asked in a quiet voice, stepping forward to kneel next to the fallen boy.

"I'm fucking fine," Vince sniffed angrily, jerking away from Greg and climbing to his feet. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand with a loud, wet sound as he stared down at his shoes.

"Come on," Greg continued, glancing down the stairs Cyril had clomped down only minutes ago. "Let's go to my house."

Still looking at the floor, Vince nodded.

Finally stepping out from behind the door, Draco led the way to Vincent's bedroom. The other two stood behind him as he threw in a handful of Floo powder with trembling fingers and called out Greg's address.

Emerging from the horrid memory with a start, Draco was pulled from his thoughts by two simultaneous noises: the first was a distant knocking on the wards, one he could feel more than hear; the second was the loud crack signifying Pibby's sudden arrival.

"Master Draco, sir! A man and woman is being at the gate, sir, and is asking to speak to Master Draco! Right away, sir, they is saying!"

Glancing toward him in interest, Draco stood and stretched his spine. Who was it? A man and a woman were there to see him?

"Very well, Pibby, thank you," he dismissed as he strode from the room, his earlier trepidation at being out in the open hallway forgotten. It felt good to be moving again after locking himself away in his room for so long, good to have something to do, even if it was as mundane as taking the time to walk all the way out to the gate to greet two strangers. It gave him something to do until his meeting with Wisp, at least.

The distant knocking on the wards had stopped, and he increased his pace out of curiosity. Before he could come within view of the gate, however, he forced himself to slow. It would hardly be to his benefit to appear too eager to receive unexpected visitors. But as he came closer and closer, he frowned, certain that his eyes were lying to him.

On the other side of the gate stood a somewhat recognizable man, standing straight and tall, with close-cropped brown hair and ears that stuck out just slightly. Longbottom looked more or less the same as last Draco had seen him three years ago. His presence was expected; after all, Potter had mentioned that he had invited the man to stay at Draco's home.

No, what was unexpected was the woman standing next to him. With waist-length dirty blonde hair and a faraway expression on her face, it was impossible not to recognize her, especially after she had spent so much time as a prisoner in the very same house she was now seeking access to.

Luna Lovegood was standing outside his gate.

 

"Hello, Draco."

When she spoke, her voice was soft and somewhat whimsical, reminding Draco of springtime for some reason. Her words were polite, and not at all what he had been expecting to hear. What was she doing there? Was she seeking some sort of closure to the trauma she had experienced within the walls of the Manor so many years ago?

"Malfoy," Longbottom greeted quietly.

Regaining control over himself and burying any surprise he still felt, Draco lowered the wards and allowed them to pass through the gate. He was unsure of what to say to either of them and settled for saying nothing. He turned and began leading the way up the long drive to the large house looming over the three of them in what Draco interpreted to be a threatening manner.

Lord, even his  _home_  appeared to be threatening him.

"Did Harry tell you I was coming?" Longbottom's soft voice sounded behind him, and Draco half-turned his head to respond.

"Yes," he answered, but then hesitated. "He did not, however, tell me about  _you_." He swung his head to the other side as he spoke, swivelling it around to land on Lovegood for almost a full second before facing forward once more. He was not sure what he should address her as. Surely it would be too informal to call her by her given name—it felt far too intimate after what the woman had suffered at the hands of his family.

As he fell silent, he hoped that his tone had sounded much more curious and much less rude than he feared it might have come across. She had been through far too much in his home without adding impoliteness to the list. If Luna Lovegood wished to return to the building that she had once been held prisoner in, then all Draco could do would be to welcome her inside as graciously as he was able to.

The silence stretched, their only response, and he hastened to correct his rashly spoken words. "I mean, it's all right, really, I don't mind, especially seeing as you're not a former Gryffindor. The Manor is being overrun by them, and it will be nice to have someone from another House to try and balance it all out. All we're missing now is a Hufflepuff." He clamped his lips shut, far too aware that he was babbling and far too aware of how unbecoming it was.

"Would you like me to find you one?" Luna's dreamy voice drifted toward him. With the odd musical lilt always present in her words, Draco was unable to tell if she was genuine or if she was teasing him.

Either way, he pulled a face and shook his head. "I doubt a Hufflepuff has ever been inside the Manor, and I won't be the Malfoy to shatter that record."

Laughing softly, Luna spoke again. "All right. And I don't mean to stay, actually. I just came to say goodbye to Neville, and I wanted to see how you were doing." Her tone was serious enough to make Draco halt in his tracks, just as they reached the stone stairs leading to the front door.

Turning to face her, he felt as though he could do nothing but stare at her with incredulous eyes. "You…came to see how I was doing?" Why would she do that? Why would she care? Surely she hated Draco and was only there to make sure that her lover remained safe within the imprisoning confines of Draco's nefarious Mansion of Evil. Why would she be there to see  _him_ , the owner and sole heir of said Mansion of Evil?

"Of course," she answered kindly, and even if he had not been staring straight at her, he would have heard the smile in her voice. "Neville's told me a bit about what's been happening. I'm so sorry about your friends, Draco."

To his embarrassment, he felt a lump beginning to form in his throat. How was it that a virtual stranger with an extremely unpleasant past in relation to his home and family was standing there asking about his wellbeing whilst radiating such genuine concern and offering her heartfelt condolences for his loss?

Swallowing thickly, he nodded and looked down. "Thank you," he whispered, looking her in the eye for the briefest of seconds before turning and leading them inside the house.

Once inside, he glanced around, noting that the main hallway was still empty. Where was everyone? It was a large building, so he supposed they could all be anywhere, really. Looking behind him, he noticed that both Lovegood and Longbottom were gazing around in awe. Well, he thought it was awe for Lovegood, he couldn't tell her facial expressions apart very well. They all looked the same to him, always making it appear as though she was stuck in a permanent daydream.

 _Maybe she is_ , Draco thought, suddenly envious of the girl. If only he could fall from reality as easily, submerge himself into her whimsical subconscious and see the world through eyes that still believed in magic. And not magic in the sense that he knew day-to-day magic to exist for wizards, but the magical way in which his beloved Muggle authors wove their pretty fairytales—where everything was fascinating, everything was extraordinary and mysterious _;_  the world was beautiful and enchanting. Luna Lovegood was like a walking fairytale—a personal aspect that he found strangely appealing. If he would have ever given thought to the possibility of having her in his life somehow, he would have expected himself to be annoyed by her inability to believe in anything factual, but instead, he was finding the opposite to be true.

For some reason, her presence gave him hope.

"I'll show you to your room," he said, speaking to Longbottom.

"All right," the man nodded.

They started up the stairs in silence, Draco mostly keeping his attention fixed on the never-ending marble in front of his feet. As a result, it was not until they were nearly to the top when he glanced up and noticed Potter waiting for them.

Instantly, his palms felt clammy and his heart began to hammer fiercely. Attempting to regain control over everything he felt at seeing the man, he knew he would be unable to fight the flush he could feel pooling across his cheeks. Sometimes, he really hated having such a fair complexion.

With every nearing step, Potter appeared closer and Draco's legs felt more wooden. He kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead of him, and when they reached the top, he completely ignored the brunet, walking past him as if the man did not exist. Part of him hoped to be ignored in return, part of him hoped that Potter would grab him and apologize, and the largest part hoped that the man would fall down the stairs and land on his stupidly attractive head, but the last one did not happen, and Draco admitted to himself that it had seemed rather unlikely—and perhaps the tiniest bit childish. From behind, he could hear the three old friends greeting one another, a reunion that the Slytherin did not particularly care to be present for.

"Your chambers are down the hall, Longbottom," he said loudly, refusing to slow his pace. "The coral-colored door. I'm sure Potter will be happy to show you how to set the wards. Enjoy your stay."

He had made it almost a yard when two voices called his name. One was unmistakably Luna's, and the other was even more unmistakably Potter's. What could the man still possibly want to say to Draco? Hiding both surprise and a lurching feeling of anxiety behind a stony façade, he turned and raised a single eyebrow at the two. They both spoke at the same time, nearly word-for-word, making Longbottom chuckle.

"I want to talk to you," said Luna.

"I need to talk to you," said Potter.

For a moment, the word  _need_  in Potter's request startled him. He  _needed_ to talk to Draco? About what? Something about the case? Something about the Manor? Something else hurtful and crippling he wanted to throw at the blond?

Well, Draco did not want to hear it. He did not want to hear any of it. Potter's harshly spoken words from the previous day still echoed achingly through his mind.  _Why the hell would I ever care what happened to_ you _?_ Nobody ever had, why should he have expected Potter to be any different?

The man before him was biting his lower lip nervously, and Draco thought he noticed his hand twitch, as though he was fighting the urge to run his fingers through his hair, something he was constantly doing and something which Draco found secretly endearing. More like bloody arousing, really, the way it would look all tousled afterwards and making him appear as if the man had just been well-shagged.

But Draco shoved the thought away, reminding himself that he had promised not to allow his mind to wander along that particular path.

Returning to his original method of ignoring the man completely, Draco looked Lovegood in the eye and nodded. "Of course, Luna. I still have some time before I have to leave. Would you like a cup of tea?"

For a moment, he feared that his overly-familiar usage of her given name would be too much, but she smiled and nodded dreamily. "Tea sounds lovely, but if you only have so much time, you should speak to Harry first. His is going to be much more important."

"I doubt it," said Draco coldly, gaze flicking to the brunet before returning to the curious woman before him. "You came all this way here, and I would not ask that you be forced to return simply to speak to me. Surely Potter here would agree." He could see the man out of the corner of his eye but refused to allow his stare to drift toward him.

"Well, but…yeah, uh, yeah, I guess, then," Harry relented. He took a step closer to Draco, clearly not willing to go along with Draco's simple ignoring-the-prat solution. "But later, then? Can we talk?"

With an internal sigh, Draco finally allowed his gaze to lock onto the other man. "I have no idea how long I'll be," he said in a bored tone, as though the impending conversation was of no importance. What could Potter possibly wish to speak about?

"Please?"

The single word, spoken so softly, so pleadingly, made Draco's reserves melt, despite the warnings his brain was still screaming at him. The man was staring with such regret etched all over his face that Draco could practically see the apologies leaking from his pores. Of course Potter was sorry for saying what he had said, even if he had meant the words. He was such a goddamn Gryffindor, sometimes.

"Fine," he allowed grudgingly, folding his arms and directing his gaze back to Lovegood. "Follow me, then, Luna."

As he turned around and took a step, Potter's voice sounded from behind him again, even closer. "Where are you going tonight, Draco?" The words were quiet and polite, no hint of the impatience that had been present in the questions he had demanded earlier from the blond upon receiving the letter from Wisp.

"Out," was Draco's only reply, glancing over his shoulder at Potter, who had indeed moved much closer and had a hand stretched toward him like he had been reaching out to halt the blond.

"Please, Draco. I just…I think one of us should go with you, wherever it is." He took another step closer until he was just behind Draco's shoulder, and Draco felt his breath catch. "It doesn't have to be me," he added quietly, words sounding suspiciously pained. "I can get Ron if you would prefer."

"I would prefer no one," Draco responded just as quietly, praying that the tremor was audible only to his own ears. "I cannot arrive with an escort, I'm afraid."

"But…" Harry took a deep breath, as though steeling himself for his next words. "You can't go off on your own. Not after Goyle's letter and Daphne's packages."

"Maybe," the blond said, gaze fixed on the carpet despite his head still half-turned toward the man just behind him, "if either of those things had been sent to  _me_ , I would see your point. But until I personally receive the letter marking me the next target, I'm afraid I'm going out tonight sans chaperon."

"But…I…but…" Potter seemed to be struggling with words, as if he wanted to continue to argue but did not wish to push Draco any further than he already had. "Okay, fine," he relented with a sigh. "But promise me you'll be careful, won't you? Please?"

A strong urge swept through Draco to snap at the other man, remind him hotly that he did not care about Draco, as he had said to Draco just the previous afternoon, but he swallowed the angry words and nodded once instead. "Luna, if you'll follow me," he said, turning fully to face her. She was staring between Harry and himself curiously, her head slightly tilted, as though deciding what to make of them. But she nodded and smiled, gesturing for him to lead the way.

As his head swivelled forward once more, he was unable to help locking gazes with Harry. Green eyes were suddenly staring into his own, and he felt unable to look away. There was a slightly frustrated expression on the man's face, but in his eyes, Draco thought he could see concern, apology, and a softness that he did not know what to make of. His stare held such intensity, like he could see straight into Draco, pierce right through the marble veneer the blond had erected around himself since childhood. In those bottomless eyes was also a longing that Draco dare not allow himself to believe.

But he wanted to. He wanted to fall into the emerald gaze, lose himself in it, wanted to drown in it. He wanted to submerge himself and never resurface, safe forever in Potter's intense stare. With a wrench, he tore his eyes from the green pools tugging at him, threatening to engulf him in their emotional tide, and turned away once again.

Without another word, he began striding down the hallway, heart pounding in his chest. Light footsteps sounded behind him that he knew belonged to Lovegood. Slowing his pace slightly, he allowed her to catch up and fall into step beside him.

"Where are we going?" she asked curiously, gazing around at the spacious hallway.

"The music room," he responded, not having decided until that very moment. For some reason, the music room felt like an appropriate place to hold a conversation with Luna Lovegood in, and for an even stranger reason, he did not mind the thought of showing her the room.

"All right," came the melodic reply.

The rest of the distance was traversed in silence. When they entered the familiar and once-loathed room, the corners of Draco's mouth turned up at Luna's reaction. She was gazing around with a wide smile, eyes unable to settle on anything longer than a few seconds before flitting away to land on something else.

"It's lovely, Draco," she chimed softly, drifting forward to get a closer look at the piano. "Do you play?"

"A bit," he admitted, settling into an armchair and hoping that she was not about to ask him to play for her. He would not mind, exactly, but he did not have too much time and was unsure of how long their conversation would take. He still had no idea what she wished to speak to him about.

"I can't believe I was here for so long, and never saw any of the rest of the house. It's so beautiful."

For several moments, Draco just stared at her in disbelief, unsure if he had actually heard her correctly. Her tone was relaxed and faraway, certainly not the sort of tone he would expect from someone speaking of their imprisonment.

"I never blamed you, you know," she said suddenly, startling him even further.

"But…what…?" Draco was at a loss for what to say. He had not been prepared for her arrival or her unexpected abruptness, and least of all for the words she had spoken. How could she not blame him? He was Draco  _Malfoy_ , owner of  _Malfoy_  Manor, where she had been kept fucking  _prisoner_. And now she was telling him that she held no ill will toward him?

No, he had no clue what to say.

"I knew it wasn't your fault," she continued, gliding closer to perch on the couch across from him. "You were even more of a prisoner here than I was."

More of a prisoner than her? How had Draco been more imprisoned? As far as he knew, he had never been locked up in his cellar.

"I—why are you saying this?" he asked in an odd tone, tilting his head to study her from the side, as though seeing her from a new angle might help solve the mystery that was the strange woman sitting across from him.

"Because I think you need to hear it," she said simply. "Because you look at the ground when you speak to me, and the only thing I can really think to attribute to that is that you're uncomfortable around me because of what I went through here."

If this was how the girl chose to conduct all of her conversations, Draco would never be able to speak to her. Once again, he was at a complete loss for what to say. Was he really so transparent? Did she really harbour no grudge toward him?

"And thank you, by the way," she continued, as though determined to see Draco struck mute forever, but this time, the words made his lips unstick to ask a question.

"Thank me? For what?" Why on earth would she  _thank_  him? Perhaps everybody had been right about Lovegood and the girl really was incurably insane. She struck Draco as more peculiar as opposed to mental, but so far she had not said anything to prove her sanity.

"Yes, thank you," she smiled. "For the extra food you snuck down sometimes to Mr Ollivander and me."

Draco felt dazed. It was true that during the times he had been home, he would occasionally have a house-elf sneak extra food down to the two locked in his cellar, one of whom had been a teenage girl and the other had been bloody  _ancient_ , for Merlin's sake. His maniacal aunt had been the one in charge of them and had routinely forgotten that even prisoners occasionally need food to survive. "How did you know it was me?"

Her smile had never faded and stretched even wider at the question. "Who else would it have been?"

"Um, you're welcome, then," he said uncomfortably, shifting his weight atop his seat nervously and biting back the urge to argue with her gratitude. He had certainly not been expecting to be thanked, an extremely rare occurrence in his life. Gratitude was something hardly ever directed his way, and he was not sure how exactly to accept it or handle it properly.

"I know that you never wanted to hurt anybody. I could see that you were just as scared as I was, and so I could never blame you. We all suffered during the war one way or another."

Draco could only stare. He could only stare at the bizarre, remarkable woman sitting across from him, saying things to him that he had not even known had been weighing on him so heavily. But knowing that someone such as Luna Lovegood, who had more reason to hate him than almost anybody else, was absolving him of the past and offering him forgiveness for things that she said he did not even need forgiveness for, was making him feel lighter, less burdened, in a way that he had not for such a long time. It felt as if finally, some part of him was being soothed and quieted by the kind words; part of him was being freed. She was giving him a budding sort of peace of mind that he did not know what to do with.

Aware that he should really say something, he opened his mouth and said the first thing that came to mind: "Thank you, Luna."

She smiled again and nodded, not even asking what exactly it was he was thanking her for. She most likely already knew, insightful as she strangely was, and Draco was apparently an open book.

"Did you still want to have tea?" she asked, peering at him and adjusting her fuchsia robes.

Casting a quick Tempus and noting the time, he shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't have time at the moment." And he found that he really was sorry. However unexpected, he enjoyed the girl's strange presence.

"Next time, then," she said, rising from her seat. Draco rose as well, and they exited the room together. "Will you play for me next time?" she asked, gesturing back toward the room.

"If you would like," he consented. Glancing around, he noted that the hallway was once again empty. "I'm afraid that I don't know where either Longbottom or Potter have gone, but that door right there," he indicated a short distance up the hallway, "is Longbottom's. Weasley, Daphne, Greg," he pointed out the doors as they passed them, "Blaise, and Potter."

"How many rooms are there in the house?" she wondered curiously, gazing around.

Draco shrugged. "I've never counted them."

"Which one is yours?"

He motioned toward his own door, just past Potter's.

"And what's in the room beyond it?"

The question drew him to a halt and he wrapped his arms around his torso tightly, attempting to hold in the pain that Luna's inquisitive words had triggered. "That was Pansy's room," he answered softly. He did not tell her that the room was sealed off and that he still had yet to step inside, but he knew that the girl would somehow just know. She was more perceptive than Trelawney had ever been.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely, reaching out to place a hand on his upper arm. He felt warmed by the contact and was surprised to find her touch much more comforting than he would have guessed of a virtual stranger.

"Thank you," he replied, barely a whisper. She was gazing into his eyes with a kindness that he was unaccustomed to. He did not know how to handle such candor.

She seemed to sense his discomfort because she removed her hand with a smile. "I'll leave you to your mysterious plans then, Draco. But would it be all right if I came back soon?"

Turning to face her, he gave her a small smile. "Of course. I would invite you to stay if the circumstances were not so horrid."

"It sounds so lovely," she sighed, "being surrounded by so many friends."

Her words were nice and Draco did not want to tell her that she was wrong, that he only had one friend in the house, in the entire world. Greg was the only one left.

"I'll be by to see you again soon, Draco. Goodbye." And with that, she turned and left him standing there, watching as she disappeared into Longbottom's room.

He still was unsure as to what to make of the girl. It had been one of the oddest conversations of his life, and yet one of the most freeing. How did that work? To his surprise, he found himself uncharacteristically excited for her next visit. However unusual and unexpected it had been, he had enjoyed her company.

Retreating into his own room, he crossed to the fireplace, focusing his mind once more on the upcoming meeting with Wisp. What did the man have to tell him? What had he found? With slightly shaking fingers, Draco scooped a handful of Floo powder and took a deep breath before tossing it into the flames and stepping into their harmless emerald warmth. Steeling himself, he called out for the Den of the Lion.

As his room faded away and he began to rotate nauseatingly past flashing grates, he prayed that Wisp held the answers he so desperately sought.

And he wondered again what Harry wished to speak to him about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aaaand that is the thirteenth chapter down! What did we think? Resolutions still have yet to be reached between the boys, but we did get Luna—my second favorite HP character— and I do hope it was all worth the wait! (Which was a bit longer than I thought it would be; haha for some reason jail cells do not come equipped with access to the internet and it took me a minute to scrape together enough money for bail.) But I am a free little sparrow once more and—assuming I can keep my anger in check in the future—shall remain one, so hopefully the next update will be much sooner. The next chapter might just be the most dramatic one yet :) See you then, lovelies! Can't fuckin wait!


	14. A Better Resurrection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Internet! I have missed you all so very terribly! I know that it has been practically centuries since I've updated this story, so I won't take up too much time here with non-story-related words. I will say a real quick sorry now for my prolonged absence, and the rest of the apologies and excuses shall all be at the very end.
> 
> I hope everyone remembers where this story left off because that is pretty much right where it picks back up. Prepare for tons of drama, heaps of hurt feelings, a minor revelation or two, and some hardcore misunderstandings. Also, a bit of hardcore making out. I shall leave it up to you to find out who is involved in the dramatic makeout.
> 
> Time for one vague warning and a smidge of caps lock, and then onto the new chapter!
> 
> WARNING—What is a story without a bit of drama?

_I have no wit, no words, no tears;_   
_My heart within me like a stone_   
_Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears;_   
_Look right, look left, I dwell alone;_   
_I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief_   
_No everlasting hills I see;_   
_My life is in the falling leaf;_   
_O Jesus, quicken me._

"A Better Resurrection"—Christina Rosetti

 

* * *

 

The pub was noisy and already crowded, despite it still being a rather early hour for a Friday night. Raking his eyes over the steadily growing throng, Draco spied a table along the wall and hurried toward it, lowering into the seat with stiff movements. His stomach was twisting with nerves at the thought of the upcoming meeting with Wisp. What news did the man have? Would Draco finally have his answers? Would the mystery finally be solved beyond any shadow of a doubt? Would he now be able to sleep at night, having achieved some sort of closure to the persistent grief still haunting his every step? Would Pansy have the vengeance she was owed? Would Draco have the vengeance he craved?

"What'll it be, love?"

Draco blinked, startled by the sudden barmaid appearing in front of him. How long had she been standing there?

Shaking off his surprise, he ordered two of Wisp's usual's, lapsing once more into troubled silence in the wake of the woman's departure. He held himself tensely, sitting uncomfortably straight in his chair and feeling jumpy and more than uneasy at the presence of the loud crowd around him. By the time the woman returned with the drinks, he was beginning to feel a restless sort of itch spreading along the skin of his forearms, but he held himself all the more rigid and tried to ignore it.

As she walked away, he considered spelling the alcohol from his foamy glass of lager, but after a moment decided against it. He needed something to help the impending reality he would soon be faced with upon Wisp's arrival—if the man would ever actually arrive, that was.

Just as Draco was beginning to grow impatient—after all, who was the one being paid?—the chair opposite him was pulled out with a screech and Wisp was suddenly seated across the table from him, grinning darkly.

"Malfoy," he greeted, whispering several spells over his ale and casting a muffled silencing charm around them.

"Well?" Draco demanded, far too impatient to be anything less than direct. "What did you find? Was he in Azkaban?"

Grinning around several large gulps of his drink, Wisp shook his head. "Gone," he replied simply.

"Gone?" Draco echoed, hands trembling. He had not truly allowed himself to believe that it was possible. Cyril Crabbe? He would never have suspected a Death Eater of being responsible for the murders of so many Slytherins—and all for the memory of Vince?  _Why_? "How does one break out of Azkaban?" Draco knew it had been done before, of course. He had learned to his horror just how possible it was to break out of the wizarding prison when his mad aunt had been set loose on the public once again. But how had Cyril Crabbe done it? There was no Dark Lord to help him escape this time.

No, it made no sense.

Wisp opened his mouth to speak but Draco continued before he could. "And how would nobody have known? These attacks have been happening for  _months_. How would he have been gone for months without the public being made aware?"

Grin widening, Wisp drained the rest of his glass and gestured for the barmaid to bring another. "You see now, that is the interesting bit, right there." He paused, to Draco's growing frustration.

"Well?" Draco snapped, losing all composure. What was interesting? What had the man found?

"You see," Wisp glanced around as he leaned closer, "there was someone in his cell. Someone who looked a lot like him. But," he smiled a toothy, dangerous grin, "it definitely wasn't him."

"Who was it?" Draco asked numbly. Was it really possible? "Are you saying he used Polyjuice to escape?" If that was what Wisp was indeed about to inform him was how the man had broken out, Draco was not sure he would believe it. The amount of Polyjuice it would take for someone to assume Crabbe's place in prison for  _months_  would be astronomical. It would not and could not be possible.

"It was a guard," Wisp answered, but fell silent as the barmaid returned with his drink, smiling prettily at him as she set it on the table. "Cheers, pet," he grinned, lifting the glass in a salute and causing a blush to spread across her dark skin as he looked her up and down.

Draco drummed his fingers impatiently on the table until she walked away. "Well?" he began immediately, leaning in across the empty space and lowering his voice, despite the privacy ward still in place around them. "It was a guard?"

Nodding, Wisp took a gulp. "One of the guards, Imperiused to take doses from a store of Polyjuice somehow being smuggled in to him."

"For  _months_?" Draco could not believe it. It seemed unfathomable to him. How had Crabbe managed it? Who had helped him? He had to have had help from the outside; there was no way he would have been able to pull off such a feat on his own from behind prison bars.

"Well, you see now," Wisp lowered his voice as he also leaned in closer, "that's the thing. He  _hasn't_  been in there for months. I've checked the work records of all the guards, and the one that I found in Crabbe's cell had not missed a single day of work in almost a year until a little over three weeks ago."

"But then, who killed the others?" Draco felt strange; it felt like his body was full of lead. His limbs felt heavy and weighed-down, and there was an uncomfortable heat curling low in his gut. Was it maybe not Cyril after all? Was he innocent? Or was he working with the attackers? Had he paid someone off at the start, perhaps, and then broken out of Azkaban to finish the rest?

"You sure sent me on a bloody mystery here, Malfoy," Wisp grinned as he saluted Draco with his glass, "and I'm afraid I don't have all the answers yet."

"What did you do with the guard?"

"I managed to break the Imperius curse placed on him, which wasn't easy, by the way, but once I found the information I was after, I put him back under and left him there. If I'm going to be looking for Cyril Crabbe, I don't want the Ministry getting in the way and fucking everything up.

"And honestly," he continued, looking Draco in the eye, "his mind has been completely shattered by the strength of the original curse. He doesn't know who put it on him, or when, or even where he is. He's like an empty shell now, able to do nothing but follow the instructions of the curse."

"And you can't find who put him under?" Draco shivered at the image his mind conjured of a vacant-eyed man sitting empty and hollow surrounded by darkness in Cyril Crabbe's rightfully-earned place in prison, but he shoved the vision aside.

Finishing his drink before shaking his head, Wisp gave him an odd look. "There was something else of interest that I found," he said lightly, waving his empty glass at the waitress with a large smile. He made them both wait in silence as she brought over another, lingering even longer than her previous visit and attempting to make small talk with Wisp, who was indulging her with a roguish grin.

Unable to contain his impatience, Draco instead forced himself to focus his mind on the task of attempting to sort through everything that Wisp had told him up to that point. Cyril Crabbe was no longer in Azkaban—Draco knew that and could accept that as fact. But had he only been out for less than a month? Or had he been switching guards in his place to diffuse suspicion? But wouldn't Wisp have found evidence of that on the work records? Who was his outside help? Who had smuggled in Polyjuice Potion and who had the motive for doing so? Draco was not aware of any friends that Cyril still had—most of the Death Eaters were either in Azkaban or dead, including the man's wife and only child. And even if Vincent or his mother  _had_ been alive, knowing what Draco knew of Cyril, both of them would have been more than happy to leave him to rot behind bars. Who would want him free and who was capable of placing a guard under a strong enough Imperius to shatter his mind? Whoever it was had to also be responsible for brewing the staggering amount of Polyjuice it would take to keep the guise up. Who had the means and just exactly how many people were involved?

And most importantly, where was Cyril hiding? Surely, he wouldn't be hidden in Vincent's childhood home. That would be far too obvious for someone clever enough to pull off everything Wisp had been describing. Perhaps his mysterious friends were housing him? It had to be somewhere close, though. Someplace sheltered and hidden, yet close enough to be able to execute the planned attacks without drawing attention. He had to be somewhere that he could keep an eye on the others.

But was Cyril even the one responsible?

With a cough, Draco's attention was returned to Wisp. The barmaid had wandered off and they were alone once again—if the blond could somehow manage to ignore the large mob pressed around them.

"What was it that you found?" Draco asked casually, lifting his glass to take a small sip of his lager but regretting it when his hand shook as he lowered it back to the table.

"Well," Wisp began, copying Draco and taking a much larger swallow, "he's been receiving visitors. One visitor, actually. For nearly the past six months, at least once a fortnight, he receives a single visitor, according to the log one usually has to sign when visiting someone in Azkaban." His words were accompanied by a wide grin, letting Draco know that Wisp was one of the ones for whom that rule did not apply.

Impatience seized his entire body in a fierce grip; Draco felt frozen with anticipation. Who was it? Who was visiting Cyril? It was obviously whoever had broken him out, but  _who was it_?

"The name," Wisp continued slowly, as though Draco's nerves weren't already on edge enough, "is impossible, though."

The words shocked the blond into releasing a strangled laugh. "This entire fucking case has been impossible."

Nodding his agreement, Wisp smiled dangerously. "Yes, it has been. But this is where it gets even more interesting."

Swallowing a growl, Draco forced himself to sit back and regard Wisp as coolly as he was able. "Who is it?" he asked in a clipped tone. The man was clearly enjoying dishing out the answers one tiny slice at a time, and Draco knew that he only had so much patience. He was controlling himself for the moment, but if Wisp used the word  _interesting_  one more time, Draco would not be responsible for his actions. He needed to know  _now._

"The mysterious visitor…" Wisp murmured, tapping a finger against the table in thought. "I've checked the records, and it's always him. But how can it be? It's not possible, and there's just no way. And yet, all wands are required to be presented upon entering the building and held while any visitors are allowed access to the inmates. So how could Azkaban be fooled? How could the  _magic_  be fooled?" His eyes were unfocused and Draco knew that Wisp was mostly speaking to himself.

Resisting the urge to reach out and shake the other man in order to remind him of Draco's presence, the blond instead settled for taking a sip of his beverage and setting the glass down with a loud  _thud_. The sound snapped Wisp's attention to himself and he smirked internally.

Outwardly, he remained his cool composure, raising a single eyebrow and asking Wisp, yet again, "Who is it?"

A toothy grin spread across Wisp's face, as though the name he was about to speak was giving him joy in its absolute impossibility. Who had been visiting Cyril for months? Who had broken him out? Who in the entire world wanted him free and for what purpose? The force of the questions swirling through Draco's mind threatened to overwhelm him completely.

Burying them for the time, he waited as patiently as he was able to for a response.

But when it came, it knocked him into open-mouthed shock.  _No, he's wrong_ , Draco thought dizzily.  _That's fucking impossible. I know for a fact just how impossible that is._

The serious look in Wisp's eyes, however, and the man's reputation for finding impossible answers sent Draco spiraling even further into shock. The single name he had spoken was still reverberating through his dazed skull, bouncing around in nonsensical echoes.

"Vincent Crabbe."

 

The three syllables dropped into Draco's stomach like heavy stones. Vincent Crabbe? How could that be? Vince was dead; Draco knew that to be fact. He had been there, after all, he knew exactly what had happened to Vince. He had been there in the room as he died; had seen the hungry inferno that devoured the other boy—felt the searing heat of the flamed dragons swooping above his head, breathed in the heavy smoke from the twisted burning animal shapes of the sentient fire chasing them, shrieking and crackling and growing closer and hotter, until it felt like Draco's skin was going to blister and peel right off his charred bones, until he was nothing but ash, and the blazing creatures would surely devour that as well—just as they had devoured Vincent. He was gone forever, never to return. It was not possible that he was visiting his father in Azkaban more than three years after Draco had witnessed him die.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head and leaning back in his seat. "No, that's not possible."

"It's really not," Wisp agreed, "and yet…" He made a wide gesture with his arm before taking a gulp of his remaining ale.

"I saw him die," Draco's eyes narrowed. "I know it's not Vince. Someone is clearly impersonating him."

"Are they impersonating his wand, as well?" Wisp asked quietly, sipping his lager and peering curiously at Draco over the rim of his glass.

"Well…" Draco was at a loss for how to respond. Vince's wand had been destroyed, lost forever in the flames that had consumed its owner. Hadn't it? Hadn't they both? Hadn't Draco seen it with his own haunted eyes?

"Has he continued visiting the entire time the guard has been in Cyril's place?" he asked instead, leaning in close and attempting to focus his mind away from the painful memories of being surrounded by blistering walls of heat and flame that echoed back to him the sounds of his own panicked screaming.

With an internal shake, he banished the dark thoughts and focused on Wisp, who was nodding and opening his mouth to respond. "Like unpredictable clockwork. He shows up when he wants, and always leaves before the hour's up."

"Is that where you are planning on apprehending him?" At the grin spreading across Wisp's face at the question, Draco smothered the urge to roll his eyes. "You shall be paid for it, of course."

"I'll get you whoever it is," he agreed, draining his glass and glancing around the room for the barmaid.

Before Draco could ask any more questions or demand any further information, a heavy hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder, startling him and causing his head to automatically whip around in surprise. Glancing up a lean body clad in familiar Muggle denims, his wide eyes snapped up to meet the furious green gaze of Harry Potter.

 

* * *

 

The pub was far too loud and far too crowded, in Harry's opinion. He could feel a faint pounding near his temples, the beginnings of a distant headache. Glancing around, he sighed. He had no idea what time Rhys was supposed to show up, or what the man even looked like. Dean and Seamus were both there, however, and Samaira had promised to alert him the instant Rhys walked through the door.

All he had to do now was wait.

With another sigh, he tapped his fingers impatiently against the furthest corner of the curved wooden bar he was seated at. He took a swallow of his butterbeer, wishing it was stronger, wishing he wasn't on duty and could order firewhisky. He felt as if he needed  _something_  to loosen the tense coil of stress, dread, sorrow, regret, envy, guilt, shame, arousal, anger, desire, hatred that had all been curling and tightening within him throughout the past several days. He felt it sitting heavy and acidic in his stomach like a lead weight, the virulent solidness reminding him of nothing but Draco.

Would Malfoy actually allow him the chance to apologize? Would he allow Harry to speak and would he actually listen? Would Harry be able to make Draco see, make Draco understand? Would Draco forgive him?

For the thousandth time, Harry wished for Hermione's Time-Turner from third year. What he wouldn't give to be able to go back in time several days, back to when he and Malfoy still got along, when Draco trusted him and could actually stand to be in the same room as the brunet. Back to before Harry had destroyed everything—back to before Harry had kissed him.

He felt a sharp pang at how Draco now obviously regretted everything that had happened between them—every kiss, every touch, every whisper shared between them. The way Harry had stretched atop him and pressed his body against the one panting beneath him…He could still feel Draco, rocking against him, moaning his name, warm palms exploring the bare skin of Harry's back underneath his t-shirt. The sounds and sighs and breathless whispers that Draco had made…

"What are you thinking about?"

A shadow fell over him momentarily before the long figure dropped nimbly into the seat next to Harry. Caelix was peering at him curiously, one dark eyebrow lifted.

"Oh, er, nothing," Harry stammered, flushing deeply and taking a drink, only to choke on the mouthful of butterbeer he was unable to swallow correctly. "Just the case, you know?" he rasped, eyes watering as he drew in harsh breaths.

"Right," Cae grinned, turning to face the barmaid as she drifted over to him. "Vodka tonic," he addressed her.

Seconds later, it was placed in front of a smiling Caelix. Harry frowned as the man took a gulp. Why was Harry on duty at a pub, again?

"So, we're at this particular pub why?" Caelix wondered, sipping at the clear liquid and chewing on the end of the tiny black straw floating between clinking ice cubes.

"I…well…" Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

When he had written Caelix earlier that afternoon, asking if he would meet the brunet later in the evening at the Den, he had left out the part about how Harry was going to be there in an official capacity. Would Caelix be upset? Did he see the meeting as a date? Did Harry see it as a date? He was not yet sure; he hadn't decided. All he knew was that he and Cae needed to talk, and Harry needed to be honest. Caelix would understand his confusion, right? Caelix was kind and understanding, empathetic and genuine. Harry would be lucky to be with someone like Cae—if only he could be sure. If only he could be certain of his feelings, his intentions, his sincerity, the things he wanted from life, the paths he was treading. How could he ever be certain of anything? He had been certain that Draco cared about him, only to be painfully proven wrong. How could he again trust the same sort of situation so soon?

"Yes?" Caelix prodded, jabbing the ice around the glass with his straw as he waited for Harry's reply.

"I need to speak to one of the regulars, actually," the brunet admitted, taking another swig of butterbeer in an attempt to cover up the awkwardness of having to admit to the other man that Harry was at the pub for work. "One of the blokes that comes in has some sort of past with Zabini and might be able to answer a few questions we have about his activities over the past few months. He vanished a month before the attacks started, and has left zero trails anywhere in all that time, like he just completely disappeared until a few days ago."

"Do you believe Zabini responsible?" Caelix asked in surprise.

Harry shrugged. "We've been focusing this whole time on outside sources that would want vengeance against the Slytherins. We haven't actually looked at any of the remaining Slytherins that might hold a grudge against their fellow housemates."

Caelix appeared doubtful. "But why would Zabini be seeking such violent retribution? Whoever is killing them off is seriously angry about something."

"Well," Harry lowered his voice and leaned in closer, "he and Draco had this huge falling out a few months back, and that's when Zabini vanished. What if that fight was what pushed him over the edge, so to speak, and he decided that all of Slytherin had to pay?"

Caelix toyed with his straw for a moment, attempting to force an ice cube to the bottom, only to have it slip out and bob back up to the surface time and again. "Do you mean to say that they broke up?"

Harry felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. "Yeah," he admitted. "And it was a nasty break up, too, from what I've heard. What if Zabini snapped? Maybe he couldn't take losing Draco, coupled with all the guilt and anger, and he just flipped and went mental and started hacking all his old housemates apart?"

Caelix stared at him.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it was him," Harry grumbled under his breath. "He's obviously a bastard and most likely unstable."

"Harry, what…" Caelix paused to finish off his drink before continuing, "what exactly is the problem between you and Zabini? You two seem to really hate one another, but Ron said that you hadn't ever really spoken before a few days ago."

"We just…don't like each other," Harry struggled for words. He did not want to explain to Caelix what the real problem between him and Zabini was, but he knew he needed to. He needed to tell him everything. But maybe he shouldn't start by attempting to explain the Painful Triangle of Unreturned Feelings he had found himself trapped in alongside Zabini and Malfoy.

What shape did that make what he and Caelix were in? To figure that out, Harry would have to first figure out just what exactly he and Caelix meant to each other before he could figure out shapes regarding it. Harry sighed. Why was everything so difficult? Why did everything hurt so much? Why did every outcome bring with it such sorrow?

"Does it…" Caelix took a breath, staring resolutely down at his glass. "Does it have to do with you and Draco?"

"Me and Draco?" Harry echoed, heart hammering.

"Harry," said Caelix in a firm voice, turning on his stool to face the Auror directly. "I know. I mean, I don't actually know, but I  _know_ , you know?"

"I—look, Cae—" Harry began but paused as Samaira suddenly appeared in front of him.

"Harry," she said in a low voice, leaning toward him. "Rhys just sat down, right over there," she pointed toward a table where a younger crowd of six or seven people was sat. "He's the reddish-blond with short hair."

"Okay, thank you," he nodded, smiling tightly at her. She smiled back, staring at him for several moments before turning away.

Facing Cae, Harry ran a hand through his hair nervously. "Erm, I need to go talk to him. It's important, I'm sorry," he apologized, guilt churning through him. "But I'll be back soon, and I promise we'll talk, and I promise I'll tell you everything. Yeah?"

"Yeah, all right," Caelix agreed hesitantly.

Harry opened his mouth to say Merlin knew what, when he felt a presence approaching from behind and turned to face it instead, relaxing as he took in Dean's beaming face.

"Hullo, Harry," Dean greeted cheerfully. "Hullo, friend of Harry," he added, leaning around Harry to peer at Caelix.

"Oh, er, this is Caelix," Harry introduced awkwardly, gesturing toward the pierced man. "Cae, this is Dean. We were in the same year in Gryffindor together."

"How do you two know each other?" Dean asked curiously.

There was an awkward pause before Harry responded. "We work together."

"Oh, you're an Auror?" Dean stepped closer to address Caelix, who was staring at Harry oddly.

"No, I work in MEA," Caelix turned on his stool to face Dean more directly, hurrying to continue his explanation at the confused look on Dean's face. "Magical Evidence Analysis. I'm a Tracer," he grinned. "I prefer the lab to the actual danger associated with being a crimson. I leave that sort of risking-your-life business to Harry, here," Cae nodded toward him.

Dean chuckled. "To be honest, that sounds a lot more interesting to me than fieldwork. Most of the lads in our year ended up becoming Aurors. But Seamus and I decided that owning a pub sounded better than spending our days chasing after hexes."

"You own this place?" Cae sounded surprised. "That's impressive, considering how young you are." He glanced pointedly around at the swarm of people surrounding them. "You two seem to be doing quite well at it."

"Thanks," Dean smiled, but it faltered as he looked away. "Seamus had some relatives die in the war, and a few of them left him a bit of gold. He wanted to put the money toward something beneficial, something to help everyone and bring people together and make them all happy," the smile from earlier returned, stretching Dean's face wide. "And of course, the very first thing he thought of was a pub."

"And what else can better benefit society by uniting everyone than a pub?" Cae grinned.

Dean laughed. "It was the only thing we could think of, as well."

"I've always heard that Gryffindors are a selfless lot," said Caelix seriously, earning another chuckle from Dean.

"We all help out in different ways."

"Well," Harry interrupted, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, almost as though he was intruding on them. Had they forgotten he was still there? "I'm just gonna go talk to Rhys, then," he said, swinging his arms. "I'll be back in a bit, Cae, yeah?" He started to head off, but Dean called his name and he paused.

"Did you see who else showed up tonight?" he asked in a low voice, stepping close to Harry.

The Auror automatically glanced around. "Who?"

"Malfoy," Dean nodded toward the far wall. "He's here with the same bloke as last time."

The same bloke? Harry felt a pained fluttering drift through his midsection. "Just the two of them?"

Dean nodded.

Frowning, Harry raked a hand through his hair. "Okay, thanks." He turned away from Dean, making his way through the thick crowd spilling across the floor. As he neared the wall Dean had indicated, Harry's heart began to pound. Who was it Draco was meeting with? Was it a business associate, like the previous time he had left the Manor unescorted? Or was this something more personal? Was Draco maybe possibly there on a  _date_?

As the familiar blond hair came into sight, the painful fluttering from earlier returned, like butterflies with razor wings floating through Harry's intestines, slicing his insides to shreds. Draco Malfoy was sitting at a table, leaning in toward a good-looking man with shaggy brown hair. The man was grinning widely, and Harry felt anger rise within him like a burning flame.

Stalking over toward the two, Harry felt his hurt and rage worsen with each quiet footstep. The loud hum of the crowd around him fell mute to his furious ears, as though a heavy curtain had been dropped on the throng. Had Draco really blown Harry off to meet up with a  _date_? Had he refused Harry's apology in order to make it to meet his  _lover_  on time?

Who the fuck did Draco Malfoy think he was?

Reaching out one arm, Harry clamped a hand around Malfoy's shoulder in a vicelike grip. Draco's head automatically whipped around and glanced up to meet Harry's gaze. The man looked confused for the briefest of moments, eyes flicking around as though making certain there was nothing else out of the ordinary within sight before darting back to rest on Harry.

"Potter," he said in a low voice, eyes narrowing at the hand Harry still had on Malfoy's shoulder. "What are you doing here?"

"No," Harry argued in a soft voice, "What are  _you_  doing here?"

Malfoy's only response was to glance between Harry and the man seated across the table from himself uneasily.

"And how do you know Harry Potter?" the man asked in interest, his voice friendly, but his eyes narrowed as he addressed Draco, almost as though he was accusing him of something.

Harry finally released his hold on Malfoy's shoulder.

"From school," Draco responded, taking a sip of his pint. The drink surprised Harry. He had never seen Draco drink ale before or ever imagined the blond would swallow anything as common as pub lager from on tap. Was he attempting to impress the man seated across from him?

"Can I speak to you, Draco?" Harry asked coolly as he folded his arms. His body felt tense and stretched tight, like a spring pulled too far apart, straining to snap back together again.

With another uneasy glance at the unknown man, Malfoy shook his head. "I'm in the middle of something, I'm afraid. It will have to wait for another time."

"It won't take long," Harry insisted, eyes narrowing dangerously. Malfoy shot another nervous look at the stranger across from him.

"By all means," the man cut in, pausing to drain his glass, "go speak with your school friend. I should be going anyway. I have busy days ahead, as you well know. You'll be hearing from me," he addressed Draco with a grin, and Harry felt jealousy claw sharply at him as Malfoy nodded and relaxed, appearing relieved.

As the man passed Harry, he tilted his head to peer at him, lips spread wide across a smiling face. There was something that Harry didn't like about his smile, though. There was a challenging tilt to it that seemed almost taunting. Almost as if the man was grinning about a secret that he knew and one that Harry did not. Was the secret about Draco? Was he smiling because he knew of Harry's feelings for the blond and knew that they went unreturned because that man was secretly the object of Draco's affections?

But the next second, the man was gone, and Draco was glaring at Harry. Harry returned the glare whole-heartedly. "I'd like to speak outside, Malfoy, if you don't mind."

"Why?" Malfoy drawled, though he dropped a handful of coins on the table as he rose from his seat and gestured for Harry to lead the way. "Afraid your adoring public will witness you make a scene?"

Gritting his teeth, Harry swallowed the urge to snap at him, instead focusing on winding his way through the thick field of bodies blocking his path. Finally, they made it to the blessed coolness of the outside. The sun had long set, leaving the world cast in darkness and waning moonlight. A light breeze stirred the dead autumn leaves lining the worn road, dragging across the cobblestones with a dry, scratching rattle. A wooden sign creaked in the distance.

Harry led them around the side of the building into an empty alley cobwebbed in shadows. Turning to face Malfoy, he found the blond halted several feet away, face hooded in darkness and hidden from view.

Neither man said anything.

The silent stand-off was broken by Draco. "What the fuck are you doing here, Potter? Are you  _following_  me?" Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Malfoy continued. "Did you follow me from the Manor? Do you not trust me not to get myself killed? Do you not believe me capable of leaving the house without needing your constant protection? Or is it that you really  _don't_  trust me?" His tone turned strange, sounding almost wounded. "You suspect me of something, is that it? And followed me in an attempt to catch me in some sort of illegitimate act? You think  _I'm_ the one behind all this, don't you? God, do you really hate me that much, Potter? Am I still just nothing but a Death Eater to you? How fucking  _dare_ you!"

"No, Draco, that's—" Harry tried, insides suddenly raw with squirming guilt and chest still hot with anger, but Malfoy interrupted.

"No, Potter!" he snapped, fists clenched by his side. "I don't care, and I don't want to hear it. You've already done enough tonight."

At that, Harry's teeth clenched together. "Oh, I'm so sorry for interrupting your  _date_ , Malfoy," he drawled sarcastically, adopting the most scathing tone he could.

"Oh, fuck you!" the blond snapped. "I don't have to fucking explain myself to you!"

Gritting his jaw, Harry tried for calm. "Yes, you fucking do," he growled—so much for calm. "When I'm the one assigned to watch out for you, you fucking do."

Malfoy barked a sharp laugh. "Right," the sneer could be heard, even if it could not be seen in the darkness. "The only reason you care. I remember. We wouldn't want my death to reflect badly on the Golden Boy's golden record, now would we?"

"No! I—"

"I. Don't. Want. To hear it," Malfoy repeated, breathing heavily. His face was still hidden in shadows, but Harry could imagine perfectly the way his silver eyes would be flashing, could imagine the alabaster skin of his face darkening to a delicate pink the way it did when the man was truly angry.

God, Draco was beautiful.

And beautiful Draco was the same Draco who had turned away from Harry and taken several steps out of the alley.

Hurrying after him, Harry called out, "Draco, stop, I'm sorry! That's not what it is at all!" Reaching out one hand, Harry grabbed him by the shoulder and swung the blond around to face him. "I care, I really do! I—"

"Just shut UP!" Everything else Harry had been about to say was cut off by Draco launching himself at him. As a pair of lips suddenly attached themselves to his own, Harry gasped in shock. Two hands tangled themselves in his hair, tightening painfully and tugging him closer. Draco bit Harry's bottom lip, his tongue sliding into Harry's mouth when the brunet made a noise of surprise. The shock quickly wore off enough for him to wrap his arms around the blond as he responded to the passion of the kiss. It was angry, demanding, open-mouthed, rough. Malfoy tugged on the thick black strands of hair caught between his fingers, pulling sharply and forcing Harry's head to tilt at an angle so Draco could deepen the kiss.

Harry grasped at the muscled skin of Draco's back, scratching and clutching bruises into him. He pressed himself more fully into the warm body plastered directly against his own, feeling as though he could never be close enough to the other man. Malfoy's chest was hard against his own, rising and falling rapidly as he exhaled sharp pants that were swallowed by Harry. Harry could feel all the blood in his body beginning to pool in his groin and felt Draco hardening against his hip.

A sharp pain flared suddenly as Draco pulled harshly on the hair in his grasp, dragging Harry's head back far enough to whisper angry words against his lips. "Goddamn you, Potter."

The next second, Harry felt a warm mouth close over the skin of his throat. He breathed out a soft moan as teeth dragged over the flesh before Malfoy latched onto a spot and  _bit_. Harry made a startled sound that was half-gasp and half-groan, clutching Malfoy even more tightly to himself. He had never had anyone bite him before, never had anybody be rough with him. He felt dizzy with arousal. Who would have guessed he would enjoy being bitten?

Tilting his head further back, Harry slid a hand into Malfoy's hair to hold his head in place. He felt Draco's lips curve into a smirk against his throat before pressing several soft kisses to Harry's neck, making Harry frown in confusion. Where had the roughness gone?

Without warning, Draco suddenly bit down hard, earning a startled moan from the brunet. Draco rolled the flesh of Harry's throat between his teeth, and Harry felt his hips jerk forward in response. "God, fuck,  _Draco_ ," he panted, rocking his hips and wrapping one arm around the other man's narrow waist.

"That's the idea, isn't it?" he growled against Harry's throat before attacking his mouth once again.

And Harry had never felt anything like it. He was drowning in sensation. He had never had anyone kiss him so forcefully, so passionately, as if attempting to impart their entire being onto him through the raw fury of a kiss. He had never had anyone clutch his entire body to them so tightly, so possessively, as if they would never let go. He had never felt such burning arousal licking its way through him, searing through his veins with such fiery consuming  _need_. He  _needed_  Draco.

Draco's hands were everywhere, his hips were fitted firmly against Harry's own, his tongue felt as if it was pressing into every centimeter of Harry's mouth. The initial fury of the kiss had not slowed any, and he slid his palms down Draco's back, gripping his arse securely and trying to drag him even closer. He squeezed roughly, grinding against the other man as Malfoy moaned into his mouth, arching into him.

"God, I fucking want you, Draco," Harry murmured, the words swallowed somewhat by Draco's lips. Malfoy's only response was to roll his hips sharply, tearing a deep groan from Harry's throat.

"Here to speak to one of the regulars, are you, Harry?" a voice asked, slicing sharply through the air and causing Harry and Draco to wrench apart. Glancing up, Harry felt guilt douse him like a bucket of ice water.

Caelix stood just outside the door of the pub, staring between them with disbelief etched across his face, eyes wide with hurt. "How's that conversation going?" he asked in a strange tone. Harry couldn't decide if he sounded more incredulous, betrayed, or upset.

Lowering his head, he glanced at Draco out of the corner of his eye. The man was staring between Harry and Caelix with a sharp comprehension, and the more time passed, the icier his expression became.

"Were you on a  _date_ , Potter?" Malfoy asked in a quiet voice, the words trembling with frozen rage. "Have I been nothing but an intermission on your  _fucking date_?"

"I—Draco, no, I—" Harry began wildly, unsure of how he could fix the situation. What could he say to make things right? How could he explain to either of them what had happened? He didn't even know himself. Everything had just  _happened_ ; he certainly hadn't planned anything.

"Are you here on a date, Potter?" Malfoy demanded, crossing his arms and glaring viciously.

"No—" Harry answered.

"Yes," said Caelix.

"Well, which is it?" Draco scowled, swinging his frosty glower between the two of them.

"Was this not a date, Harry?" Caelix asked softly, gaze fixed firmly on the ground as he crossed his arms defensively over his chest.

"I—well—the thing is…" Harry stammered, feeling nearly dizzy with how hard his heart was hammering. What the hell had he been doing? What had he been thinking? Had he really been about to get off with Malfoy right outside of the pub that his sort-of-maybe-date had been waiting patiently inside of? How could he do that to Caelix? How could he do that to Draco?

But Harry hadn't been thinking. Not with his larger brain, at any rate. Draco had just turned and kissed him out of nowhere, kissed him so brilliantly, so sinfully, a kiss full of fire and a primal angry lust that had taken Harry's breath away, and he had been lost. He had been swept away in the intoxicating feel of Draco Malfoy's body pressed so intimately to his own. Without hesitation, he had given himself over to the furious tide of passion that had threatened to drown them both in white-hot flames of desire and sheer unadulterated  _need_.

"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy spat angrily, turning to stride away before Harry's words made him pause.

"Fuck me?" he began furiously, taking a step toward the blond. "You were on a date as well, you fucking hypocrite. Don't act as if I'm the only one in the wrong here!" His words were venom, his tone acidic and harsh. How dare Malfoy point his smug finger at Harry and lecture him about ethics and morality when he was guilty of the exact same thing? After all, he had been the one to kiss Harry this time, not the other way around.

"Who the fuck ever said that was a date, you infuriating fucking idiot?" Draco shouted, gesturing back toward the pub.

"I know what I saw, you liar," Harry fumed, fighting the urge to either stamp his foot or else maybe pull out his wand. All the previous hurt and anger he had felt upon first learning about Draco's date had resurfaced in an instant. "And I know that's not the first time you've met that bloke for a drink, so spare me the dishonesty." Malfoy looked surprised, mouth dropping in disbelief as Harry continued to spit poison. It felt just as it always had between them—vitriol and violence, rage and cutting words. They were Potter and Malfoy, and they had always hated one another.

"Was it not enough, having only me and Zabini interested? Was it not enough  _attention_  for you, only the two of us? Is it even more fun for you with another man involved?" Harry's voice turned cold. "Are you really that lonely and pathetic?" He paused to feel a surge of sickening pleasure at the sight of Malfoy's stricken expression, and his mouth opened again as he found himself unable to stop spewing malice like scorching bile rising deep in his throat. "Is Zabini next on the list? Are you not going to call it a night until you've whored yourself out to all three of us in turn?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry knew he had gone too far. A pained expression crossed Draco's face in a quick flash like a lash from a whip, accompanied by a visible flinch.

"Fuck you, Potter," he repeated in a whisper, and before Harry could leap forward to stop him, he turned on his heel and vanished with a loud echoing crack.

Silence settled atop the darkness, heavy and smothering, pressing into Harry from all sides and making him feel as though he could not breathe properly. Regret tore through him with a sharp agony that made even his bones ache. Why had he said those things? He had been so angry and hurt…And still was, as a matter of fact. Draco hadn't exactly been guiltless, after all.

But the hurt in those grey eyes…

With another burning pang of remorse, Harry recalled that he had been intending to apologize to Malfoy for upsetting him only just the previous afternoon. Sighing heavily, Harry fought the urge to tear out handfuls of hair. He supposed he would add this latest indiscretion to the growing list of things he needed to apologize to Draco for. But would it even help? Everything Harry had done so far had only made things worse, for everybody around him. Maybe the best thing for everyone involved would be if they cut Harry out of their lives completely in order to save themselves from his cursed existence.

But he could not just leave things like that with Draco. He had to find him and he had to apologize, even if the blond would not listen or accept it. Harry couldn't blame him if he chose not to. But he would try, at least. With a new determination, Harry nodded to himself and turned to Disapparate, but paused mid-spin as he noticed Caelix still standing several yards away, staring right at him.

Fuck. How had Harry forgotten about Caelix? Was it actually possible for Harry to be even more inconsiderate of the people surrounding him than he already was? No wonder Ginny had moved so far away immediately after they ended their relationship. Christ, even Harry wished he could move away from himself.

Biting his lip nervously, he tucked his wand out of sight and approached Caelix at a slow pace, stopping a good distance away.

"Cae—" he began, taking a deep breath. "I'm so sorry. Really. I'm so fucking sorry, I never intended any of this to happen. But I can explain," his words started to come faster as his voice became louder and more earnest, "I swear I can! Well, maybe I can't, really, so much, cos I seem to be complete shit at explaining myself, but I can  _try_. I just—I never meant—I'm really sorry," he trailed off in a whisper, feeling a burning in his throat. He found that he was unable to look the other man in the eye, and settled instead for speaking to the ground beneath the feet of the familiar scruffy trainers he would recognize anywhere.

When had everything become so complicated? When had every decision led to such misery? When had Harry started hating himself for his actions?

"Why did you invite me out tonight?" Cae's words were quiet and unsure. "Did you know he was going to be here?"

"No! I swear—"

"What were you expecting tonight, Harry?" The softly spoken words made Harry pause. "What is this to you and what exactly were you expecting to happen?"

"None of this, I swear!"

"What, then?" Cae's words were still so quiet, and it only served to make Harry feel worse. He would prefer for Caelix to yell and scream, shove him away, tell him he was a horrible person. But his voice was so small, his words holding more sadness than Harry had ever heard in Cae's normally cheerful tone.

"I—I'm not sure," Harry admitted. "I honestly am not sure what this is or how I feel about you. I intended to tell you everything tonight—be completely honest and confess to everything. This was not how I was intending you to find out about it," he ducked his head, face flushing.

"You…kissed me back, though," Caelix seemed to struggle with words for a moment. "You're not sure of your feelings toward me at all?"

"No, I mean…" It was Harry's turn to wrestle with words. "I know that I'm attracted to you," he kept his gaze fixed on the ground as he spoke, "and I know that I liked kissing you, and I like  _you_ , I do, really, but…" He gestured behind him toward the space he and Draco had taken up together so recently.

Cae's shoulders slumped. "But…you like Draco. More," he added dully.

"Well—I—it's complicated," Harry's lips seemed to trip over the words as they stumbled from his mouth.

"Yes, because of Zabini and whoever Draco had been in there with earlier tonight, right?" Caelix wrapped his arms more fully around his thin torso. "And because of me. I complicate things."

"No, Cae!" Harry exclaimed, striding closer to grasp the man's upper arms.

"Yes, Harry," Cae sighed. "Look, I  _am_ sure of my feelings, and I  _do_  know that I complicate things. Clearly, you're confused and have yet to figure out really anything in regards to the situation. I mean, obviously you've known Draco longer, and in a lot of ways, you've always known him a lot better. And honestly, based off of things I've heard from Neville and Ron and Hermione and Luna, it's not surprising that the two of you would end up having feelings for one another. I'm sure just about everyone saw it coming."

"That's not true," Harry argued, dropping his hold on Caelix in surprise. He had certainly not seen it coming. He would never have guessed that one day he would end up falling for Draco Malfoy, of all people. "We used to hate each other, Cae. Like genuinely loathe one another. For Christ's sake, I sliced his chest apart in a bathroom! He broke my nose on the train! He called Hermione a Mudblood for years and wrote a song about Ron being poor that he got all of Slytherin to sing at Quidditch matches! He faked an injury third year in order to get Hagrid's hippogriff executed! He made  _Potter Stinks_ badges during the Triwizard Tournament and passed them around the school! He sold made-up stories about me to the Daily Prophet when we were fourteen! He's the most spoiled, entitled, arrogant, irritating fucking prat I've ever met!"

Breathing heavily and attempting to calm himself, Harry waited as his rant was met with silence.

"Yeah," Cae finally said, tone dripping with sarcasm. "It sounds like you have zero feelings at all in regards to him."

Harry could only stare. He had no idea how to respond to that, to any of it, to the entire situation. He didn't know what to say next; he was not even sure how he felt. "Cae, I'm sorry."

"I know, Harry," Cae answered in a sharp voice.

A thick silence fell between them. With every passing second, Harry could feel himself growing more uncomfortable as the air around them grew more and more strained. Should he break it first? What should he say? What was the right thing to add? How else could he explain himself? Was there any way to make anything better? Would it be better for Caelix if Harry was to leave?

As though reading his mind, Caelix swung his arms for a moment before striding past him without a glance. "I need to go," he said quietly, and without another word, turned and vanished, leaving Harry all alone in the suffocating silence of his own anguished remorse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much drama, my goodness! I did promise plenty. And there is only more to be had.
> 
> Speaking of promises, I did promise apologies and excuses, and here they are—I know that this chapter was extremely long in coming, and I am so very sorry for the wait. To those of you and my mother who've been wondering where I've been, I was neither in jail nor rehab nor lying wounded in a hospital somewhere. I've been more or less ok, and I am sorry to everyone for the lack of contact. Life is nothing but brief interludes between extreme dramas and unnecessary badness, and the bad tends to overwhelm almost everything it encounters, and as a result, outlets such as writing get pushed further and further back. Sometimes it's impossible not to let all the little daily grievances overshadow everything else.
> 
> Continuing with the sorrys, I would also like to apologize for how terrible I am at responding to all you lovely people who have left comments for me. I really do love and adore them, and I know that I'm the worst at responding. I don't believe in smartphones or owning one or really owning anything that unnecessarily high-tech, so I'm pretty limited in my chances to go online. I'm pretty shit all round at responding to any sort of text or email or general sort of greeting. I very much live tucked away in my own little world, living within my own interests and ignoring everything else. But I really will try to be better at responding to comments, because I treasure them down to my very soul! I do so love knowing what everyone is thinking.
> 
> Buuuuut anyway, back to the story! What does everybody think so far? I promise that things won't stay bad between Harry and Draco for too much longer. Soon will come loads of apologies and kind words and all sorts of super gay, super graphic pornography.
> 
> But until that future arrives, let our boys pretend to hate each other. Some people just don't know how to handle their feelings. And try not to judge Harry too harshly, we all say horrible things we instantly regret, especially to the people we care about the most. After all, who's never told someone they genuinely love to fuck off and die before? If you never have, those are some damn tame relationships and I sincerely admire your calm.
> 
> But changing the subject away from angry love, what does everyone think of Wisp's news? How many of you out there have been missing Crabbe? How many of you out there suspected Crabbe? And how many of you out there suspect and miss him even more now? Will Wisp's answers ever actually seem to answer anything, or will they only lead to more questions? Just some things to think about before the next update...
> 
> real quick p.s.—
> 
> Draco's behavior and the fact that he was the first to snap was mentioned by someone, and I would like to remind everyone that he is still grieving and to take that into account in regard to his anger and rather contradictory feelings. Having lost my own Pansy not too long ago, I can tell you from personal experience that grief usually manifests itself as nothing but pure, unbridled rage, towards absolutely just everything and every single person. But our boys won't hate each other forever, I promise! Soon they will both sit down and talk it out like rational human beings. Cross my Slytherin heart :) Til next time, lovers!


End file.
